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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099832">The Hidden Realities of the Air</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrock/pseuds/prufrock'>prufrock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood &amp; Manga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Automail Talk, Childhood Memories, Crying, Edward Elric Swears, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Hurt Edward Elric, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, The Gate of Truth, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:22:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>40,134</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099832</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/prufrock/pseuds/prufrock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything goes wrong at the Fifth Laboratory, Ed gets freaked out and Al shuts down. Ed, afraid of seeing Al meet the same fate as Number 48, sets out to find a way to bring back Al’s body on his own. Al, questioning whether he ever existed at all, starts spiraling.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alphonse Elric &amp; Edward Elric</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>139</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. the hospital</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  <i>“O Creator-gods of celestial natures —straightaway the flames took him up entire, which is a terrible story, my brother. For from the great energy of the mortifications his eyes became full with blood.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>And I questioned him saying, ‘Why do you lie there?’</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>And he opened his mouth and said, ‘I am the man of lead and I am withstanding an intolerable force.’”</i></p><p> </p><p>— The Visions of Zosimos, 3rd-4th century AD</p><p> </p><p>(New) title stolen from Robert Boyle’s 1674 alchemy text <i>Suspicions About the Hidden Realities of the Air</i>, which I am obsessed with as a concept/title.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ed woke up in the ambulance.</p><p> </p><p>He could tell it was a military ambulance because everyone was in fucking uniform, and he could tell it was an ambulance because everything fucking hurt, and someone was leaning into his face asking him to follow his finger, count back from ten, follow the needling little fucking penlight he kept waving in Ed’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“Al,” Ed said. </p><p> </p><p>“Can you hear me? Follow my finger.”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Al. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>“Kid, look at me, can you see how many fingers I’m holding up?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed closed his eyes. Something was seeping out of his side. His whole stomach felt sticky and itchy. It fucking hurt. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Where’s Al?” </em></p><p> </p><p>Someone else was there, saying his name. Ed squinted up. Short hair. Dark eyes. <em> Second Lieutenant Ross.  </em></p><p> </p><p>“Al couldn’t fit in the ambulance, Edward.” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Somebody had broken the blood seal. Somebody stabbed it, over and over and over, and Ed watched the whole heaving metal mass twitch like a living thing (like a <em> dying </em> thing). And he couldn’t see Al. </p><p> </p><p>The person trying to get him to count his stupid fucking fingers said, “His pulse is spiking.”</p><p> </p><p>“Al’s safe,” Lieutenant Ross was saying, and Ed found his fingers twisted in hers, sticky blood on cool skin, his left arm pulled awkwardly across his chest because his right couldn’t move, squeezing as hard as he could while the ambulance lurched and the medic yelled at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Count backwards from ten.”</p><p> </p><p>He lost track of things around <em> four </em>. Ross was there, and then she wasn’t, and then Al was there, and then he wasn’t, and the whole time the sound of metal on metal hung in Ed’s ears. The sight of those twitching, writhing hands. A visual death rattle. He played it over and over in his mind while somebody stitched up his side and somebody else wrapped his ribs in gauze and somebody else told him to look up, look over here, count to ten, count back, what’s your name, what’s the year, how many fucking fingers. </p><p> </p><p>Al was there, and he was dying right in front of Ed, stabbed again and again until he was a pile of dead metal. </p><p> </p><p>Then Al wasn’t there at all. </p><p> </p><p>“Two,” Ed choked out to the fat guy holding up two thick fingers in front of his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” the fat guy said. “That’s good.” </p><p> </p><p>They sewed up his side and wrapped his ribs and sent him up to a private room to recover. It was weird, being in the hospital without Al. Weird was the wrong word. It was unnerving, unsettling, hard to follow: just noise and light and pain and a different person at his bedside every time he opened his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>It was fucking scary, was what it was.</p><p> </p><p>Once the IV was in his arm (which took a lot longer than usual, without Al there to hold him down and <em> it’s over before you know it, Brother </em> him), things smoothed out. For a while, at least. The pain in his ribs subsided; somebody put a blanket over him, the weight unexpected, dragging him down into shocky sleep. That part was okay. He liked the drugs just fine. </p><p> </p><p>What sucked a lot more was waking up at what felt like a secret hour between the break and the ass crack of dawn, dry mouth and dizzy with pain and so nauseous he puked on the sheets before he could even find the stupid fucking call button to bring the nurse. Which meant that he had to change his clothes, still nauseous, still at the ass-fucking-crack of dawn, in front of some ugly guy in hospital whites, with his side splitting open and the stupid IV dragging at his skin, shifting around on the bed while they changed the sheets around him and every movement hurt like a hot metal prod deep through each layer of his muscles. His right arm hanging off him the whole time like a dead thing. </p><p> </p><p>The worst part was he couldn’t even get properly angry, like he wanted. He mostly just said “sorry” a lot. </p><p> </p><p>A nice nurse brought him a cup of ice chips right as the sun was rising. That was nice. That was pretty good. </p><p> </p><p>“Your brother is down the hall,” she told him. It was weird information to have. Down the hall where. Why. Why not <em> here </em>. He didn’t have the energy to ask. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” he said. She left. </p><p> </p><p>He slept, apparently. Al was there when he woke up, as if nothing had happened, as if that night was normal. He was sitting in the corner of the room, talking to Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, who was drinking a cup of tea off Ed’s breakfast tray. </p><p> </p><p>“You two should lie low for a while after this,” Hughes was saying. “Get out to the country. Head north, take in those mountain views.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Al said. “I guess maybe we will.”</p><p> </p><p>Normal shit.</p><p> </p><p>“Yo,” Hughes said, turning to Ed. Bat ears. For a dumbass, he picked up on everything. “You’re awake.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” Ed said. He didn’t feel awake. He felt like he was dreaming, like this was the boring flip side of the nightmare where Al died. The pain in his side was a whisper, so he figured they’d upped his pain meds some time in the night. </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t say anything. Ed couldn’t tell where he was looking. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes had a weird look on his face. “I wanted to talk to you about last night, but maybe you’d better get some more rest first.” Soft, silly voice, like he was talking to a kid. </p><p> </p><p>“Mmphh.” Ed didn’t look <em> that </em>bad. He tried to sit up, and the room pitched sideways. For a few seconds, Ed hung at a precise right angle to reality, watching Al’s silent armor float horizontal in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes pushed him down, a big gentle hand on what counted right now for Ed’s good shoulder. “Take it easy. Rest.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed meant to argue, but sleep washed over him. </p><p> </p><p>Either the doctors adjusted the dose again, or he ate through all the good stuff while he slept, because he woke up around noon with his side on fire and his head swimming with pain. He rolled onto his side, groaning, using his good arm to shield his eyes from the light overhead. </p><p> </p><p>“Be careful.”</p><p> </p><p>He sat up. The room swayed, but leveled. Al was in the corner again. </p><p> </p><p>“Al,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“It fucking hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What the hell kind of answer was that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Ed looked at the table beside his bed, searching for the cup of ice chips. They were long melted, a warm puddle in the bottom of the cup. He gulped that down anyway, side-eying the tray of soup and bread sitting next to it. Hospital food. Hooray.</p><p> </p><p>“You should eat your lunch,” Al said, like he knew what Ed was thinking. </p><p> </p><p>“In a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>“Colonel Hughes ate your breakfast. He said he’ll be back later today.” For some reason, Ed felt a little shock of relief run through him. <em> Hughes was here earlier. The B-side dream was real. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Whatever.” Ed flopped back against the pillows, wincing a little at what the movement did to his side. “Are <em> you </em> okay?” He didn’t know why that question felt heavy. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” Al said. But there was a little edge to his voice, a weird stubborn weight Ed recognized too well. And, well, Ed guessed he could figure that out easy enough. Here at this dead end Ed led them down, why wouldn’t he be pissed off? </p><p> </p><p><em> That guy in the armor. He yelled the whole time he died. Like it hurt. Like he could </em> feel <em> it happening.  </em></p><p> </p><p>I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Like Al just had, for reasons still lost on Ed. But Al had nothing to be sorry for, and Ed had so much that starting with just those two words felt cheap. Childish. Like he expected some kind of forgiveness Al had no way to give him. That was the difference. </p><p> </p><p>A nurse came in to check on him, sticking a thermometer under his tongue, squinting at the flattened IV bag hanging from the pole. She asked how the pain was. </p><p> </p><p>“Not bad,” Ed told her. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t lie.” Al sounded tired. The way the nurse was standing, Ed couldn’t see him. </p><p> </p><p>So he told the truth. “It all hurts. A lot. My head, especially.” </p><p> </p><p>She wrote something down on a piece of paper and promised to ask the doctor about a stronger dose. Then she was gone.</p><p> </p><p>“You have to tell the truth,” Al said when the door closed behind her. Something was wrong with his voice. Too tired. Too heavy. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What’s wrong, Al? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before he could say it, Al stood up—metal heaving, clanking, that same spasmodic rattle Ed heard last night—and left the room. </p>
<hr/><p>Once, at the academy, Hughes stayed up for one hundred hours in a row. Four days, four hours, and by the time it was over he wasn’t even tired anymore so much as floating on a new plane of reality, walking with his feet around the level of other people’s shoulders. That’s what it felt like, anyway, even if his <em> actual </em> feet stayed on the ground. He drank some day-old tea he found sitting on Roy’s desk, did some push-ups, and fell asleep for twelve hours. He and Roy went out that night and got wasted, and life carried on. </p><p> </p><p>He felt like that now—past tired and levitating into some glassy higher dimension—only this time, he’d been sleeping. Just not consistently. And not too much. And it never seemed to change anything. He figured this was what getting old felt like. </p><p> </p><p>Technically, he could go home now, see Gracia and Elicia and roll into bed, and he’d have a full six hours to sleep before he needed to be back in the office with Scheska. But he promised Ed and Al that he’d come by the hospital after working hours, so here he was, in a car from the court martial office to Central Hospital. He took the opportunity of the five-minute drive to nap.</p><p> </p><p>Ed was awake again. Al was nowhere to be seen. </p><p> </p><p>“You again?” he said. He was propped up against the pillows, picking at the dried blood stuck in his hair with the hand that still worked. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course,” Hughes said, “but you were asleep this morning. I’ve got new photos of Elicia, I knew you’d want to see.” He let Ed give him a full-body eye-roll, then asked, “Where’s your brother?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed scowled, and his eyes slid off Hughes, toward the empty wall lit by the setting sun. “Dunno.”</p><p> </p><p>That was odd. Hughes hadn’t even known the Elric brothers very long, and he’d never met two people so perfectly mapped onto each other’s souls; stuck together in a way that seemed both involuntary and completely sustaining on both ends of the equation. But now Ed didn’t know where his brother was, and Al—</p><p> </p><p>Well. He was getting ahead of himself. </p><p> </p><p>He sat down in the chair by Ed’s bed, grateful for even the hard, tacky vinyl over standing for another minute. He pulled Elicia’s photos out and spread them over the blankets, annoying Ed just enough with his commentary to get a chance to study him for a minute.</p><p> </p><p>He looked okay. Busted up, run ragged, but alert and grounded in the way he wasn’t earlier. The nurse Hughes cornered on the way up said that Major Elric had a moderate concussion and broken ribs in addition to the blood loss and whatever it was they’d had to stitch up in his side. Hughes had seen the bandages that morning, steeped in blood and with flecks of black thread poking out at the edges. But then, if Hughes knew anything about it, Ed would be trying to bust out of the hospital by tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>“You get that shoving pictures in everyone’s face is a great way to make them hate your kid?” Ed was asking. “You get that, right?”</p><p> </p><p>“Nobody could ever hate Elicia,” Hughes said, unbothered, tucking the photos back into his pocket.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re getting me there.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pah.” Hughes waved that off. “Listen. I need to hear from you what happened last night.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed frowned. “I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just tell me what you can remember.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s story was simultaneously simple and so full of meaningless impossibilities Hughes had a difficult time putting the pieces in logical order. He and Al had broken into the lab—that much Hughes knew from Al, already—and found evidence of some defunct  corrupted setup for the transmutation of convicts into philosopher’s stones. So much, so terrible. But then there were these people—the ones Ed said knocked him out, the ones with black clothes and red tattoos, who seemed to be behind the whole operation, and Hughes didn’t know what to make of them, or of the fact (for which he was profoundly grateful) that they’d not only let Ed walk out of there alive, they’d <em> carried </em>him out till he was safe with the sergeant and the lieutenant. </p><p> </p><p>And there was something else, something Ed wasn’t saying. Hughes could tell from the way the tension stayed in his shoulders after he stopped talking, and from the way he kept glancing toward the door. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to say it in front of anyone else. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s all?” Hughes said, a little nudge. Ed nodded. He looked sick, like he’d swallowed something poisonous. Something with thorns that was bound to tear him up on its way back up his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes was so tired. Leave now, and he could make it home before Gracia went to bed, take a shower and get a good five hours in. </p><p> </p><p>Ed was staring at the wall across from him, his good arm clasped across his belly with his bad, as if he could hold himself steady just like that. It wasn't working. Hughes recognized that look of panic, the rigid cant of Ed’s shoulders as he rocked ever so slightly on the spot. He stayed where he was.</p><p> </p><p>“They,” Ed’s voice came out as a gasp when he finally spoke again. “They were like Al.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like Al? Who?”</p><p> </p><p>“The guards.” Ed kept his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “The guy I fought—guys. It was two guys, in one suit, and they both—I saw them both—” He broke off. </p><p> </p><p>“The guards were hollow? Like Al, just—armor?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed nodded. “Someone else had the same idea as me. Those people—and they knew how to break it.”</p><p> </p><p>“Break what?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed hesitated. “The seal,” he said finally. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes leaned back in his seat. “I’m a very tired old man, Ed,” he said, “and I’m not an alchemist. So talk me through that. What seal?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed took a slow, careful breath that caught several times in his throat. Then another. His eyes were shut. “It’s made of blood,” he said finally. “It’s what keeps—what binds a soul to iron.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s what keeps Al alive,” Hughes said slowly, translating. Ed nodded. “And these people—the ones at the laboratory—know how it works.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed flinched. </p><p> </p><p>“I saw it,” he whispered. “I saw them die.”</p><p> </p><p>For a few seconds, Hughes couldn’t react to that. He watched himself just sitting there, separated from himself and from Ed by the sheer, gauzy dimension of sleep deprivation, and by the horror of what Ed had just said. Hughes had seen people die in front of him before, far more than he was interested in tabulating or revisiting. Ed, he was pretty sure, had seen just the one until last night. And, </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> they were like Al.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Well, fuck. </p><p> </p><p>Ed ducked his face down to clunk against his knees, eliciting a faint rustle of gears from the left one, cramming his good hand over his ear. Hughes could hear him breathing too fast, each gasp hitching in his chest, just a noise of plain, dumb panic. He was just a <em> kid. </em>Not for the first time, Hughes wondered if Roy couldn’t have postponed that trip to Resembool at least another year. </p><p> </p><p>That thought wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Ed was here now, and so was Al—wherever he was at this exact moment—and the only options available to Hughes were very much in the present, not the past or any theoretical possible <em> nows </em>. </p><p> </p><p>He pulled the chair closer to the bed and put a hand on Ed’s shaking back, rubbing slowly, feeling the strange stiff zone around Ed’s right shoulder where the automail port met skin. “Breathe,” he told the kid. “Careful not to pull those stitches; you’re okay. Oxygen in, oxygen out, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed shook his head. “Carbon dioxide,” he said, face still pinched with panic, his hand cupping his ear. “And air’s mostly nitrogen.” </p><p> </p><p>Hughes snorted. “Nitrogen and carbon dioxide, then. Keep breathing. You’re alive. You and Al both. You’re gonna make it.” </p><p> </p><p>He sat with Ed for another hour, rubbing his back until Ed finally twitched him off and changed the subject loudly, scrubbing angrily at his cheeks. They talked about food for a while, and Hughes promised to bring a decent breakfast by the hospital the next morning (another hour of sleep, lost). They talked about Ed’s prognosis, and no, Hughes said, he couldn’t check out tomorrow, not unless a doctor ordered it. </p><p> </p><p>They didn’t talk about Al, or the fact that in nearly two hours, he hadn’t come back to the room. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes was updating Ed on the latest words Elicia had added to her vocabulary—<em> puppy </em> and <em> wheelbarrow </em>—when a nurse came in to change the dressings on Ed’s wounds. </p><p> </p><p>“I can go,” Hughes said, but Ed didn’t respond. He was watching the wall again. </p><p> </p><p>“Your brother’s down the hall,” the nurse offered as she started unwrapping the bandages over Ed’s ribs, revealing the puckered, puffed gashes underneath, oozing a little around the ugly stitches. Ed nodded. He looked, suddenly, about as tired as Hughes felt. </p><p> </p><p>“Get some sleep,” Hughes told him. “I’ll be by in the morning.” </p><p> </p><p>Four hours, he figured. Four hours, if he drove home now and managed to drop off as soon as his head hit the pillow. As the elevator let him out into the hospital’s lower atrium, he glanced over at the coffee stand: open twenty-four hours. A military hospital never sleeps.</p><p> </p><p>He’d be back here in just a few hours anyway. Better to just head back to the office now, and sleep tomorrow. </p><p> </p><p>He bought a coffee and stepped out into the cool night air, steering his steps toward the court martial office. As he walked, he turned Ed’s intel over in his mind: mysterious tattoos, empty bodies, and a lab created to do the devil’s work. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes was damned if it was going to do any more of that work on his watch. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m dipping my toe into FMA fic here by kind of playing around in a favorite hurt/comforty episode and asking the question: how could it have been even <i>more</i> hurt/comforty and how could the angst have been drawn out? So the misunderstanding between Ed and Al is going to last longer, and the recovery will be slower. I have some idea of where this is going, but also....not? We’ll see! Honestly just carving out a little hurt/comfort sandbox here to beat on Ed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Resembool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ed and Al travel back from the hospital to Resembool to get Ed’s arm fixed. They’re both having a pretty bad time.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sensation and perception are two sides of the same coin, and that coin is a mystery in plain sight. </p><p> </p><p>Al knew the theory. The body reacts to the environment: nerves transmit information to the brain; that’s sensation. We break it down into finite categories of sense—taste, sight, hearing, touch, smell—but the basic process is a uniform sequence of electrical impulses, traveling up the invisible strings of the central nervous system to the cerebral cortex. There, the messages get translated into meaning, into the <em> act </em> of sensing, so that instead of a series of nerve signals you see your grandmother, you taste lemons, you feel the bite of snow on your skin. That’s perception. </p><p> </p><p>Al knew all of that, but he also knew this: science doesn’t understand any more than this, and that ignorance is built into the theory. <em> The brain translates nerve signals into perception,</em> but no one’s ever been able to say exactly <em> how </em> that act of translation takes place. No one’s been able to replicate it. And that’s what science is, after all: replication. Analyze, deconstruct, recreate. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What about you? Isn’t it possible that you don’t exist? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Al hadn’t tasted anything in four years; he had no sense of smell. No sensation; no perception. Even touch was empty: when he lifted something or put his fist against an object, he felt weight the way a machine would, accounting empirically for the energy required to offset mass. Temperature, softness, and moisture escaped him. It was data without translation; sensation without perception. </p><p> </p><p>But the hospital was loud, and he could hear it all. People talking, crying, and laughing; doors opening and closing; announcements over the PA system. Mainly, he heard the shuffle of feet hour after hour, even when the moon was up and the rest of the city was asleep. It wasn’t just the information he heard, it was <em> everything.</em> The soft grit of an old man snoring. Anguish in a child’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>He’d heard Ed last night, loud and clear. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re not real.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Al met the ambulance at the entrance to the emergency department. He watched as the medics hauled his brother out, strapped to a stretcher, conscious again but glassy eyed and pale with shock. (That, too, was more than information. <em> Perception.</em>) His eyes couldn’t seem to find a focus, but when Al came up to his side he jerked and stared. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not real.” The words came out as a gasp. Like it hurt Ed to say them. </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t understand what he was saying. He figured, well, it was Ed. And Ed never had the greatest clarity when he’d been in a fight. Al patted his shoulder—a minuscule exchange of force against mass—and said “it’s okay.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed’s eyes were screwed up. “You’re not—Al, I saw—I couldn’t stop—but it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, you’re not—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There’s something I’ve been afraid to ask you.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Someone was tugging at Al’s armor, an imbalance to his sure center of gravity. “We’ve got to move him. He’s losing blood.” Lieutenant Ross was there, her short hair ruffled, Ed’s blood bright and sticky on her left hand. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Ed choked out. Al could see the blood that had pooled at his side, saturating the canvas of the stretcher so thickly that it had already started dripping onto the floor, where it stood out dark against dull white tile. “I’m really sorry, Al.”</p><p> </p><p>Ross’s arm pressed Al back from the stretcher. “Give them space.” Her cool voice, so kind even in the midst of that chaos. The brain knows what kindness sounds like, but we don’t know why. “You can see him soon,” she said. “He needs immediate attention.” </p><p> </p><p>Al stepped backwards. The medics moved. Al could hear Ed’s harsh breathing as they took him back, a hacking sob and a yell behind the closed doors of the trauma ward. He stood beside Lieutenant Ross, processing the information. Feeling a heart he didn’t have split apart and fall into his likewise nonexistent gut. </p><p> </p><p>“He’ll be okay,” Ross said. “The adrenaline’s wearing off. He started rambling on the way here, but he’s strong—he’ll be all right. Once they’ve seen to him.” She was wiping blood—Ed’s blood—off her hand with a crisp white handkerchief. That fact struck Al as significant, somehow, but he couldn’t extract the meaning from the data. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not real.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>Al hadn’t expected the confirmation so soon, somehow. Question and answer, in less than a few hours. </p><p> </p><p>Lieutenant Ross was leaning in now, worried; insistent. “What’s the matter, Alphonse?” </p><p> </p><p>“Barry was right.”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know who he was talking about. That didn’t really matter. </p><p> </p><p>Al went upstairs before Ed, to the officers’ floor, where he knew they’d eventually bring him. And sure enough, some time later (Al didn’t know how long; time seemed to be stretching and sliding past at the wrong speed) he heard the muted commotion of wheels on tile, muffled voices down the hall: <em> watch his arm. Careful now coming around the corner. You’ve got the IV? Almost there, sir.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t follow the sound.  </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t identify the emotion keeping him in the shadows. Anger? Maybe. Fear? It was hard to imagine <em> not </em> feeling that, after all these years. Resentment, guilt, confusion—he had no idea, but he stayed in the hall all night, hidden in a dark alley beside the common washroom, while Ed slept down the hall. </p><p> </p><p>The problem was simple. Premise: Al was an artificial entity, created by Ed four years ago, implanted with false memories. Premise: Ed had lied to him for four years, treated him like a brother, saved his life more times than Al could count. Premise: Ed had admitted it that night, after the lab fell, after the truth came out and the last hope of obtaining the Philosopher’s Stone was lost in the rubble. </p><p> </p><p>Conclusion: Ed was lonely, and Al existed to replace the family he’d lost. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was spite, after all, that kept him away through the night. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes found him in the morning, and dragged him down the hall. Ed was asleep, snoring loudly. His head and ribs were wrapped in clean bandages; his automail hung at his side in a sling. Hughes took the chair by Ed’s bed and ate the toast and eggs they’d brought for his breakfast, and asked Al what happened at the laboratory. Al told him what he’d seen, and what he’d heard, and left out the rest. The lieutenant colonel didn’t need to know what Ed had done. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you all right?” Hughes was looking at him seriously. Al couldn’t read his expression. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine,” Al said. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes let his gaze hover for another long moment, then dropped it to the table. “You two should lie low for a while after this,” he said. “Get out to the country. Head north, take in those mountain views.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not real, Al.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Maybe we will.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Two whole days after the fight at the Fifth Laboratory, Ed’s head <em> still </em> hurt. Like, hurt the way it hurt right after he woke up, hurt all the way down to his leg, which, by the way, wasn’t doing so great either. At some point that night at the lab, he’d twisted it, and now his knee was swollen, purple and blue if he tugged up the hospital pants to look at it.</p><p> </p><p>The whole thing was <em> annoying</em>. </p><p> </p><p>His right arm was a problem. He called Winry the first chance he got, standing by the public telephone down the hall from his room, braced against the wall so the pain in his head wouldn’t send him sideways. The yelling didn’t help with that. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you actually that stupid?” Winry wanted to know. <em> Yes </em> was the honest answer. </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Ed said. </p><p> </p><p>“You broke it. I stayed up for three days rebuilding it from scratch a <em> week </em> ago, and you broke it.” Winry wasn’t letting this one go easy. </p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t <em> trying </em> to!” What was he supposed to say? “I didn’t go out, like, hey, how can I get my arm fucked up and ruin Winry’s life and almost—never mind, just—can you get out here? Maybe soon?” </p><p> </p><p>“Almost what?” Her voice was cold on the other end. Gentle, somehow, at the same time. He couldn’t figure Winry out sometimes. </p><p> </p><p>“Never mind.” </p><p> </p><p>“Ed? What happened?”</p><p> </p><p><em> The guy yelled the whole time. His hands twitched while he died</em>. “Nothing.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re lying.” She didn’t say it as a question. Ed was sick of everyone knowing him so well. </p><p> </p><p>“Just come?” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t,” Winry said, and she really sounded sorry then. “Not right now, I mean. I’m working on a big commission with Granny, she needs both hands on deck for this one, and it’ll take us another week before that’s done—I mean, I can try to come after that, but—”</p><p> </p><p>“Never mind.” Ed was already tired of standing up. “Al and I can come out there.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’re sure?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” He could hear her take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Look, I—I’m sorry, Ed.” </p><p> </p><p>Why did everyone keep saying that? “It’s my fault.” He really needed to sit down now. </p><p> </p><p>“I think—it might be mine.” </p><p> </p><p>That didn’t make sense. He was the one slamming the weight of that stupid arm against two entire serial killers made of iron armor. Doing, you know, the exact opposite of what she’d told him to do. “What are you talking about?” </p><p> </p><p>“I think I might have—during assembly, when I was making the replacement, I think I missed a, uh, bolt.”</p><p> </p><p>“A what?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m really sorry, Ed.” It sounded almost like she was crying. Ed thought he might throw up. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not you! This is—listen, you were right, I fucked up, I did a lot of stupid stuff with it and that’s when it broke, after I—when I was, you know, goddammit, I was fighting, okay, with, like, some really pretty bad guys, so that’s—seriously, that’s all, don’t worry about it.” </p><p> </p><p>She laughed a little. Not a happy laugh. “Don’t <em> worth</em>? About you?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s vision was getting cloudy. He leaned back against the wall. “Forget it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Come home,” she said. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll come back.” It was the same thing, and it wasn’t. He hung up the phone. </p><p> </p><p>They made him stay at the hospital for a week. “They” was the doctors, technically, but by the end of his stay Ed had a more-than-sneaking suspicion that the actual person behind it all was the fucking Colonel; Boy Matchstick, the Lame Alchemist; technically his direct superior and the most perpetual pain in his ass. How, exactly, it was any of his business if Ed had a couple of broken ribs, Ed didn’t know, but all the doctors kept saying “we’ve got orders from higher up,” and then not elaborating, and that was exactly the kind of shit Mustang would pull just to annoy him. Keep him trapped in a hospital forever, but keep the orders classified above his rank. The next time Ed saw him, he was going to spit in his coffee. </p><p> </p><p>Hughes visited at least once a day, which was exhausting, but also, Ed had to admit, the most fun each day got. Al wasn’t really talking to him. In fact, Al spent most of his time out of the room, and when Ed asked where he’d been—trying really, really hard not to sound petulant—Al just said not to worry about it. Which, Ed figured, was what he’d said to Winry himself, so maybe they were all hypocrites. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s what a family was, just people worrying each other in a circle. </p><p> </p><p>On the last day of the week, Ed bought two tickets to Resembool anyway. Fuck the colonel. He’d sneak out the window again if he had to. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, the hospital let him out, with a bottle of pills for the pain and a whole sheaf of instructions on caring for the wound in his side. Twelve sheets of paper and all that trouble, and if he’d just jumped a few inches to the right he’d be fine. The whole thing was so <em> stupid</em>. </p><p> </p><p>While he was getting dressed to leave—a massive pain with only one functioning arm, and he kept tripping over his own pant legs—a nurse came by with a wheelchair. </p><p> </p><p>“No way,” Ed told her. </p><p> </p><p>“Brother,” Al said. “Don’t argue.” </p><p> </p><p>He gave up. The second they were out of the building, though, he stood up. So, technically, he was pretty sure he won that argument. </p><p> </p><p>He fell asleep on the train. A week in bed with nothing to do, and the flat, bone-shaking bench of the train to Resembool was the best sleep he’d had in days, even if it did leave him squinting against the pain in his side and head when he woke up. He pushed himself up with his working arm and blinked out the window, where fog was coming off the plains. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re about an hour out,” Al said. Ed knew. He figured he knew this stretch of land better than just about any part of the country by now. </p><p> </p><p>The fog was thick. Oddly thick, now that Ed thought about it, and it was <em> in </em> the train, not just outside. He squinted down the length of the car, trying to see through the murk, through the throbbing behind his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>There was someone out there. </p><p> </p><p>He heard it before he saw it: two long, brutal, impossible fingers, sailing out of the fog and into the back of Al’s armor, right in the spot where his blood seal lay hidden. A heavy, grating sound, sudden and sharp. </p><p> </p><p>He heard Al crying. Begging. He couldn’t move.</p><p> </p><p>She was laughing. He still couldn’t see her. </p><p> </p><p>He could hear iron splintering. Al screamed. His body spasmed, rattling against the wooden seat, twitching of its own accord as those black spikes twisted, slowly, deliberately, breaking the hidden seal. </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s body was frozen. Not just his arm this time, but all of him—as hard as he tried, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop her. Couldn’t save him. </p><p> </p><p>Black blood was dripping out of Al’s helmet. He was still screaming.</p><p> </p><p>“Brother! <em> Please</em>! Help, brother, help, it <em> hurts </em>—!”</p><p> </p><p>The seal broke, and Ed woke up. </p><p> </p><p>“Brother.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Al was sitting quietly across from him, hands folded in his lap. No blood. No spikes coming out of his neck. The train was quiet. Someone was laughing behind them, joking with their neighbor. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t real. </p><p> </p><p>“You were having a dream,” Al said. “Weren’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed sat up. </p><p> </p><p>His stomach hurt. Really, really fucking hurt. For a minute, he couldn’t breathe, thought he was gonna throw up, almost got up and ran to the door at the end of the car so he’d avoid doing it on the floor here. His head was throbbing. To top it all off, he was <em> shaking</em>—all over, teeth chattering, full body shaking that kept knocking the elbow of his dead arm against the back of the seat, dull raps over and over in time with his thudding heart. He couldn’t stop. </p><p> </p><p>He could still <em> hear </em>Al screaming. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fine, Al.” </p><p> </p><p>Just a dream. Shake it off. Wake the fuck up. </p><p> </p><p>“We’re almost there,” Al said. <em> Great. </em>So now he’d get to roll up to see Winry with his arm in a sling, his knee busted, his hair sweaty and tangled, and looking like he just generally shit his pants. He dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to clean it up, willing his legs and shoulders to stop shaking so goddamn hard. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna get some air,” he told Al, and pushed himself up. Walking to the platform at the end of the car hurt in like seven different places, and he had to grab hard at a seat back at one point, but he needed just a minute. Just to, like, chill out. Breathe. Or something. </p><p> </p><p>It was just a dream. The problem was, he’d had the same dream every time he closed his eyes for the past week: Al screaming, metal breaking, the whole weight of Al’s body jerking in death while he cried and begged and called for Ed. And every time, Ed couldn’t move. Even when he was awake, his mind kept sliding back to it, running over the details again and again. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s what it would look like if Al died. That’s how it would sound.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One time, not too long after he got his state certification, when he was riding high on the cash and the power and the whole “youngest state alchemist in Amestrian history” thing, he fucked up an assignment. It was some stupid little mission Mustang sent him on, go check out this guy who’s been running a smuggling operation or whatever, something literally designed to waste his time, and he screwed it up—he got pinned down by two of the guy’s goons, and Al got locked inside a warehouse, and in the end Mustang had to call in reinforcements to clear up what was supposed to be a minor, routine job. After it was all over, when the MPs were on the scene and someone was taping up the fingers Ed broke punching one of the smugglers in the face, he overheard the colonel talking to Lieutenant Hawkeye. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right,” the colonel had said. “After all, he’s just a child.” </p><p> </p><p>It had made him so mad. Okay, so roughly 90% of what the colonel said made him mad, but that stuck with him, surged through him like white fire, made him so mad he couldn’t see. Because the colonel had said it when he thought Ed couldn’t hear him, and he’d said it so matter-of-factly. Almost kindly. </p><p> </p><p>And he’d been right. </p><p> </p><p>He was a child. A stupid, human child who killed his mom twice and took his brother’s life away, and then—as if that wasn’t enough stupidity and cruelty to last anyone a lifetime—he took his brother out looking for trouble, led him straight to the only other people in the world fucked up enough to trap a soul in metal, the only people who knew <em> exactly </em> how to kill someone like Al. </p><p> </p><p>He’d thought, at the time, he was doing it because he loved Al. But that was wrong. He did it because he was stupid, because he was a selfish child who couldn’t see as far as the consequences of his own actions.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t make that same mistake again. </p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><hr/><p>Ed looked horrible. Really, really bad. Winry told him so, and he told her she looked worse, and she said that was no way to talk to a lady, and he said you’re a what now, I thought you were a girl, and Granny told them both to shut up and come inside and get to work. The big job was due in two days, and Ed’s arm was thirty valuable minutes out of their working time. </p><p> </p><p>The trouble started when she took Ed into the back room. As soon as he took his shirt off, he said, “Don’t start.”</p><p> </p><p>She ignored that. “What the HELL—what <em> happened? </em>” His torso was mottled black and green, criss-crossed with cuts and scrapes. On his left side, there was a wide square of gauze, stuck to his ribs with dirty tape. She could only assume that whatever was underneath looked worse than what was visible. </p><p> </p><p>It had to hurt to move. It had to hurt to <em> breathe</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“I <em> told </em> you,” Ed sighed, rolling his eyes like <em> she </em> was the crazy one. “I got in a fight.” </p><p> </p><p>“With a <em> tank? </em>” </p><p> </p><p><em>“No!</em> Just because it’s Central doesn’t mean there’s, like, <em> tanks </em> everywhere. Don’t be <em> dumb.”</em> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not being dumb, I’m <em> asking</em>—did you <em> break </em> your <em> ribs?”</em></p><p> </p><p>“A <em> little</em>.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Ed!”</p><p> </p><p>“What’s your <em> problem?</em>” He had his good arm crossed awkwardly over the sling. “You’re my engineer, not my doctor. Believe me, if I wanted your medical advice I’d have asked for it.” </p><p> </p><p>“You called me from the hospital, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. He didn’t try to deny it.  “And you didn’t <em> mention </em> this?” </p><p> </p><p>“I said I got beat up!” </p><p> </p><p>“You said you broke your arm, not that you got hit by a truck.” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought it was a tank.”<br/><br/></p><p>“Truck, tank, whatever—Ed—you could have <em> died</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever.” He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “Can you fix it or not?”  </p><p> </p><p>She gave up. </p><p> </p><p>“Lie down.”  </p><p> </p><p>The automail itself was everything she expected: the suspension in the shoulder was blown, meaning maneuverability was shot for the whole thing, except the fingers—Ed gave that weird little grin of his as he showed her how he could still waggle those to his heart’s content. The fix was simple enough; she’d swap out a couple components and make sure the A-08 bolt ended up where it was supposed to this time. Good as new. </p><p> </p><p>“You should talk to me more, you know,” she said as she tightened the last bolt. </p><p> </p><p>He grunted. “Why.” </p><p> </p><p>“Because,” she said. “That’s what families do.” She watched his fingers tighten around nothing. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” he said, his voice half muffled in the mattress. “It’s over. I’m taking care of it.” </p><p> </p><p>She finished with his shoulder and sent him out to wait with Al, returning to the workshop with Granny and trying to swallow down the anger, the frustration; the worry about how quiet everything was. They’d barely been there for an hour and already she could feel an odd weight in the air between them. Even now, there was no laughter or bickering coming from outside, and that on its own was unusual. </p><p> </p><p>Granny had noticed it too. Winry saw the pinch in her brow. </p><p> </p><p>“Pass me that wrench,” was all she said. Winry passed it. </p><p> </p><p>They ate supper together late that night, well after the moon came up over the hills. Granny scooped fish and rice into bowls while Winry sat at the table, flexing her cramped fingers and trying to work out the crick in her neck that developed some time over the last week of hunching over the work table. Ed and Granny argued about whether or not he’d broken the toilet last time they stayed there (he had), and Winry told Al about the sheep that had gotten stuck on someone’s roof last week, and for a little while it felt like normal. Like home. </p><p> </p><p>She went up to her room after dinner. It was her favorite time, this early night shift, after Granny went to bed but before the fatigue really settled in her eyes and her shoulders. The rest of the world fell away and it was just her and the machinery, each step of the process flowing into the next, a quiet music keeping her company in the night. The client who’d ordered this piece was a long-distance runner: he’d told them all about the years he spent running in the mountains before his accident, joy lighting up his tired face as he talked. She felt that joy in her fingers now as she built the delicate machinery of the ankle joint, testing each component as she laid it in place, watching the flat steel muscles shift gracefully against the air. </p><p> </p><p>She was so engrossed in the work that by the time she noticed Ed leaning in the doorway, she couldn’t be sure how long he’d been standing there. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” She pushed up her goggles, glancing at the clock. <em> 2am. </em>For Ed to be up at all at this time was strange. Usually it was Al who found her on these late nights. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he said.</p><p> </p><p>She let him wander in, fiddling with the spare parts and tools strewn over the table. She swatted his hand away. “Don’t mess up my work bench.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her. </p><p> </p><p>She waited for him to say something, caught between her own impatience to get back to work and a need to figure out the weird nervous energy coming off him. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you working on?” She showed him. One of the things she loved about Ed—for all the shit he gave her for loving this stuff, when she showed him the inner workings of automail he paid attention. He <em> got </em> it. They talked for a while about the structure she’d come up with for the ankle, the way it would mimic the client’s gait in his healthy leg, and he told her it was really cool. </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” she said. “Anyway, why are you bugging me? It’s late.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, I guess.” </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>She didn’t expect an answer to that, but Ed squared his shoulders and stared hard at the table and said, “I keep thinking.” </p><p> </p><p>She waited. </p><p> </p><p>“About what happened,” Ed went on finally. “In Central.” The light from the workbench cast his face in odd shadows, accentuating the bruises over his nose and cheekbone. </p><p> </p><p>“What was it,” she asked. </p><p> </p><p>He sighed. “Listen, I can’t—there's stuff I shouldn’t tell you, like ‘I’ll get in trouble if I talk about it with civilians’ shouldn’t tell you. I could lose my certification. Or worse. Okay?” </p><p> </p><p>She could live with that. She didn’t like it, but she could live with it. “Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>He hesitated. “The guys I was fighting with, the bad guys, they—there was a guy like Al, a guy with no body, and they—” He broke off, frowning, fooling with a loose screw on the table. She didn’t say anything this time. </p><p> </p><p>“Just say it,” she told him. </p><p> </p><p>“They killed him in front of me,” Ed said, shrugging, like he could offset the weight of that sentence somehow. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Ed.” </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing else to say. What was she supposed to say to that? They sat in silence for a minute, caught in the golden bubble of the workshop, cut off from the outside world. </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Ed said. She could hear the strain in his voice, pitching it higher—knew it meant he was fighting not to cry. “Not even—I mean, I just <em> think </em> about it, for no reason, I’m sitting and I think, ‘that’s what it would sound like, that’s what it’s like.’ I <em> know </em> what it sounds like now.” There was a pause. “It sounded like it really hurt.” He dropped his head, scrubbing at his face. “ <em> Damn </em> it.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not your fault, Ed.” It wasn’t what he’d said, but she knew he was thinking it anyway. Remembered, not so long ago, sitting with him in the room just down the hall, listening to him sob and trying to read the monitor attached to his shoulder stump through her own tears. <em> It’s my fault. He must hate me. It’s my fault. </em>No matter how many times Granny told him no, that was impossible, he kept crying—cried until the fever broke and he lapsed into silence. Nothing they could say then would convince him that he’d been wrong. </p><p> </p><p>Ed was sitting with his chair tipped perilously back, toying obsessively with one of the spring-loaded assemblies she’d laid out for the joint. She wondered how much he remembered of those long, sick days. She’d always hoped it wasn’t much. He frowned, snapping the tight steel coils of the mechanism over and over, the repetitive <em> click-click-click </em> echoing in the little room. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t answered her. She figured she knew what that meant. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to Dublith,” he said abruptly. “Tomorrow.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dublith?” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “I need to talk to our teacher. I need to ask her for help getting Al his body back.” </p><p> </p><p>“What about Al?” His jaw stiffened. </p><p> </p><p><em> Oh. </em> So that was why he was here. That was why, after years of stubborn silence punctuated by broken limbs and apologies and denials, he’d come to her and opened up for the first time, let her in on a single, isolated corner of the existential problem he lived in. </p><p> </p><p>“I need you to keep Al from following me.” </p><p> </p><p>“And how am I supposed to do <em> that</em>?” Ed had to know that he’d just given her an impossible task: Al would follow Ed, Winry was pretty sure, into a literal open pit of lava if that’s where Ed was going. Keeping them apart was such a non-starter it had never even crossed her mind to try. </p><p> </p><p>Ed shrugged. “I dunno. I don’t care. Talk to him, lock him in the basement. Hit him. That’s your usual MO, right?” </p><p> </p><p>“He’s gonna be mad at you.” </p><p> </p><p>“He already is.” </p><p> </p><p>She knew the stubborn look on his face too well to argue. Besides, he was right—Al <em> was </em> mad, and Winry realized she’d known all evening but couldn’t put a name to the tension because it made so little sense. But Al, the peacemaker, the cool water to Ed’s fire and the level head to his brother’s noisy gut, had sat across the table from Ed that night seething with quiet rage. Add it to the list of things she knew, and yet didn’t know, about these two. </p><p> </p><p>“You should talk to him,” she said, even though she knew he’d ignore it out of hand. “It’s only gonna get worse if you don’t.” </p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, he shook his head. “Please.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” she said, even though she still wasn’t sure it was possible. “I’ll try.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you.” He stood to go, tossing the spring assembly back onto the table. She caught his arm before he could move away, felt the gears in his wrist click apprehensively under her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Promise me,” she said, “promise me you’ll try to talk to him. Not tonight, okay, but before you go. Okay? Don’t just—go and not say anything.” </p><p> </p><p>For a second, Ed seemed to consider it. Then he shook his arm free, lifting both hands to cup the back of his head, a forced gesture of assurance and ease. “I’ll call from Dublith,” he said, and disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>She turned back to the automail, retracing her last steps before Ed came in, visualizing the chain of operations she’d follow next to turn the isolated joint into a clean articulation of movement from knee to foot. The motions were instinctual, guided by a steady internal beat: clamp, tighten, align, re-adjust, repeat. She worked until the sun was spread across the table, until she heard footsteps below as the rest of the house woke and moved through the rituals of morning. Granny would have coffee on by now. </p><p> </p><p>She heard the front door open and close, and Ed’s uneven footfalls on the steps. </p><p> </p><p>Downstairs, the coffee pot shrieked. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>How did Ed break Pinako’s toilet? You decide.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. dublith</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>New title! I did something I’ve never done before when I started this fic: I started posting before I’d figured out the whole plot. The original title was just a random phrase I picked out of nowhere, and I wasn’t wild about it. Now that I’ve got more of a sense of what the fic is, I’ve decided to give it a title I like more. Voila!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Usually, when they stayed with the Rockbells, Al spent the nights outside. Sometimes he read, using a lamp to pore over whatever stack of library books they’d hauled with them, or sometimes he went walking, wandering along empty roads under the vast spill of stars that never came out under the city lights. Some nights, he walked up to Mom’s grave and sat in the darkness, talking to her till the sun rose. <br/><br/></p><p>Tonight, he looked at the photographs. </p><p> </p><p>He stood in front of the cork board, scanning the clustered snapshots, cataloguing the appearances of the little blond kid with the close-cropped hair. He wasn’t in all of them, but enough—arm in arm with Winry and Ed, reading a book whose title Al couldn’t make out. In one photo, he was just a baby, barely more than a round head on a round body, staring at the camera with huge, oblivious eyes. </p><p> </p><p>Someone had been here. <em> Someone </em> had existed. Al knew everything about him. But <em> knowing </em> wasn’t the same as <em> being</em>.  </p><p> </p><p>Around two in the morning, he heard Ed walking in the hall upstairs. Then silence. Then, some time later, Ed’s footsteps again, going down the hall in the opposite direction. </p><p> </p><p>He wondered who the boy had been. He wondered if Ed’s brother died in the outbreak, too. That would explain it. He’d tried to bring his mother back, and when that didn’t work, he built himself a brother out of a giant metal doll. </p><p> </p><p>It sounded stupid to Al, but then, so many things about his life were stupid. Nonsensical. One in a million. Why not this, too? </p><p> </p><p>If—</p><p> </p><p>If it was him, in those pictures, really him, if Barry had been wrong, and Ed had been telling the truth when Al thought he’d lied and lying when Al thought he was telling the truth—</p><p> </p><p>It felt real. Almost. It felt so close, like he could almost hold it, almost believe in it. He’d been so sure of it just a few days ago, after all. What was it that had made him so sure? </p><p> </p><p>If it was really <em> him </em> in the pictures, he ought to feel something when he looked at them, some deep spark of recognition, soul for body, self for self. And he didn’t. Or he didn’t think he did. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He looked at the photos, and he heard Ed’s voice in his head: <em> It’s not real. I’m really sorry, Al. </em></p><p> </p><p>That was all. </p><p> </p><p>Granny came downstairs just before dawn and greeted him. She put coffee on to brew and bustled around the house, sweeping things into drawers and laying out the tools in her workshop, grumbling and puffing softly as she moved. The sound was so <em> familiar, </em>so much like home. But Al had been here before, he knew. That audio file was stored in his memory. Recognition wasn’t the same as truth. </p><p> </p><p>Ed came downstairs not long after Granny, already wearing his coat, the silver chain of his watch flashing in the early sunlight. He didn’t look at Al. He drank some coffee, staring stubbornly out the window. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m running down to South City,” he announced loudly. “To South HQ. It’s that time of year again, you know the drill. Gotta turn in my dumb assessment documents and take the dumb exam so the dumb Colonel can decide if I’m still worthy of being a dumb dog of the military.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. </p><p> </p><p>He was lying. Al <em> knew </em> he was lying. He had—because Ed had implanted it in him—a precise and encyclopedic knowledge of the various cadences and encoded messages of Ed’s voice. He knew what Ed sounded like when he was happy, when he was annoyed, when he needed a nap, and, yes, when he was lying. And Ed was a <em> terrible </em> liar. </p><p> </p><p>A few days ago, Al would have called him out. He’d have argued back, demanded to know where he was really going and insisted on coming along, or at the very least insisted that Ed tell him <em> why </em> he was lying about going to headquarters to take an exam that they both knew wasn’t due till winter. </p><p> </p><p>Instead, he just said, “Okay.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed looked a little surprised that Al had bought the lie. Surprised, but relieved. He picked up the suitcase they hadn’t even bothered to unpack—why he’d need a suitcase for an exam that would take an afternoon at best, he didn’t address—and turned to go. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be back, Al.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wait.” Ed paused in the doorway, turning back to stare at Al with a quizzical look. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s the matter?” </p><p> </p><p>It was all or nothing. “The boy. The one in the photographs with you. Who is he?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed blinked. “In the—the photographs?” Al watched his eyes flicker to the board behind him. “That’s you and me, Al. Or do you mean—oh, you mean Andy? The kid with the curly hair from down the road?” </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t going to tell Al. Of course not. Al was stupid, to think Ed would really admit it. </p><p> </p><p>“Forget about it,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>Ed gave him an odd little look, but he didn’t say anything else. Turning to the door again, he waved over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a couple days.” </p><p> </p><p>And then he was gone. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Izumi’s day had been going so well. </p><p> </p><p>Well. “Going well” was relative. But then, everything is, isn’t it? </p><p> </p><p>Late summer always brought out the pain she carried in a new way: heat and blood aren't a pleasant mix. For half that week, she’d been horizontal in bed, rigid with pain, waiting for the next cough to shake loose another shower of blood that choked her and left the air around her stinking. It was gross, it was exhausting, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice in the matter. She made her choice, years ago. She’d known since then that the rest of her life would be one long, disgusting consequence. </p><p> </p><p>But that day, she’d woken up lighter, with the steel grip she’d felt twisting her guts all week unexpectedly loosened. She took a long shower, scrubbing the sweat and filth off her tired skin, and ate some breakfast. Sig insisted that she go back to bed—Izumi guessed he’d endured too many close calls at this point to let her push any harder—but she sat up, finally, reading and drinking tea instead of hacking her guts out. It was a nice change. She allowed herself the unearned emotion of relief. </p><p> </p><p>So when she heard, <em> of all things, </em>Ed’s voice in the yard, it felt like a punishment for that brief lapse. Try to ignore one consequence, and you run into another. Failure won’t let you forget. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s been a while,” Ed was saying to Sig. “How’s the store?” An utterly boring conversation, but he sounded nervous. Izumi guessed that was reasonable. </p><p> </p><p>She was going to kill him. </p><p> </p><p>Her first strike sent him sailing towards the hedge. The squawk he let out was barely satisfying. She caught him again before he could roll back to his feet, and knocked him sideways. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Hey! </em>” he choked out before she shut him up, flipping him over to land hard, spreadeagled on the grass. </p><p> </p><p>He had some nerve, talking back to her right now. She’d almost be proud, in a roundabout way, if his nerve wasn’t the whole goddamn problem. If he tried to fight back, she really might kill him. </p><p> </p><p>To his credit, he didn’t, and she finally backed off. Ed was on the ground, propping himself up on one hand while he felt his jaw with the other, testing the bones for a telltale rasp. Izumi experienced a fleeting pang of regret: she wished she <em> had </em> broken it. That, at least, would have shut him up. He was going to try to explain himself, and she didn’t have any interest in hearing it. </p><p> </p><p>“You sold yourself to the military.” She made no effort to temper her contempt. “You made yourself their dog.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed squared his jaw. “Yes.” </p><p> </p><p>She turned around. “Get out.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” came his voice from behind her back. <em> Stubborn idiot</em>. He was lucky she was fucking tired. </p><p> </p><p>“How about some tea,” Sig offered. He hadn’t moved from the doorstep. </p><p> </p><p>She hadn’t been surprised, of course. When the news started going around—the youngest alchemist in the country’s history, and he’d trained here in Dublith—well, she’d have been a bigger idiot than him if she’d been shocked. Ed and Al had come to her orphaned and too smart for their own good and so visibly desperate they might as well have had the word stamped on their foreheads. It was why she’d turned them down at first—not because they were too young (they were), not because she didn’t take students (she didn’t), but because she knew what they didn’t: that desperation wasn’t just the ugliest of sins, but the most dangerous. She’d hoped, stupidly and not without some vanity, that she could divert their path, but she hadn’t reckoned with their stubbornness. Now Ed was a dog of the military, acting like always out of the stupid, bullheaded desperation she’d been unable to shake in him. </p><p> </p><p>And now here he was, nearly grown and still a child. And his arm and leg were automail. And he was alone. </p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Al?” Sig was the one to ask, when they’d gone inside and settled around the table, cups of tea in front of them and a wad of cotton stuffed up Ed’s nose to slow the bleeding. </p><p> </p><p>Ed frowned down at his tea. “In Resembool.” </p><p> </p><p>“He always was smarter than you,” Izumi remarked. Ed bristled in her direction, but he kept his mouth shut. She was curious, though. “Does he know you’re here?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed hesitated, then nodded. “I think so.”</p><p> </p><p>“You think?” She’d never seen the two of them apart for more than an afternoon. Once, during their training, Ed had wandered into town and gotten lost, disappearing for a full two days before Sig finally tracked him down, stuffing his face from a garbage can outside a restaurant. The second day was the only time she’d ever seen Al cry. </p><p> </p><p>“I told him I was going to do my annual assessment,” Ed said. He had bruises on his temple and jaw, she realized, that she hadn’t given him. They were old—yellowed and brown around the edges, more than a week old at this point. “I’m not sure he believed me,” he said, frowning at the tabletop.  </p><p> </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p> </p><p>Ed looked, briefly, very terrified. She didn’t have much patience for it. “Tell me,” she barked. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s mad at me,” Ed blurted, “because I promised him I’d—I’d help him with something. And I didn’t. I fucked it up.” He tugged the bloody cotton out of his nose. “Teacher, I came to ask you something.” </p><p> </p><p>He was gearing up to say something terrible. She knew him much too well. </p><p> </p><p>“Well?”</p><p> </p><p>“Teacher,” Ed said, “what do you know about the Philosopher's stone?” </p><p> </p><p>And there it was. Her other greatest failure, coming back to haunt her. </p><p> </p><p>She hit him again. </p><p> </p><p>Sig, always attuned to what he should and shouldn’t hear, left the room while she crossed to the opposite wall, where Ed was picking himself up for the twentieth time that day, rubbing his shoulder. She could hear the metal joints clicking under his coat. </p><p> </p><p>“How stupid do you think I am?” she asked. She watched Ed panic for a minute, trying to figure out the right answer. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the automail?” </p><p> </p><p>That got him. He really had thought he could hide it from her. The idiot. “I—”</p><p> </p><p>“What did you do?”</p><p> </p><p>He didn’t answer. “I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t apologize. Just tell me.” She tasted the anger in each syllable. </p><p> </p><p>She knew before he said it. As she opened his mouth, she found her mind racing through the past, searching for that one moment where she could have changed course, where if she’d just done the right thing she could have stopped him saying the thing he was about to say. She was sure the chance had been there, and she’d missed it. </p><p> </p><p>“It was our mom.” His voice was hoarse. She wanted to yell. “We tried to bring her back.” </p><p> </p><p>She had breath in her for just one word. “We?”</p><p> </p><p>The story came out slowly, piece by piece. The mother who’d been their unspoken shadow as long as she’d known them. The transmutation, and the rebound. Al, taken up in the doorway, his soul bound to a suit of armor.</p><p> </p><p>In the midst of her rage, Izumi felt a perverse spark of pride at that. He’d been bleeding out, and he’d done alchemy most adults would have failed at if they’d even known to try. </p><p> </p><p>They’d survived, somehow. Automail and a blood seal, and that old stubbornness. They’d gotten back on their feet, gone to Central, and Ed had taken that fucking oath. It was the same story, in a different key: desperation, the oldest and the cruelest sin, driving them deeper into places they should never have been in the first place. </p><p> </p><p>He told her about the research notes, the words coming through gritted teeth. He told her about the laboratory, and the rift that had opened between him and Al—it was a new wound, then, and the slight shake in Ed’s voice confirmed it. </p><p> </p><p>“I have to find a way,” he finished.“To get his body back. I’ve gotta. He’s not safe like this. That’s why I left him back there. If I don’t figure it out, if he gets—” He shook his head, pushing the thought away. “He’s never gonna forgive me,” he said finally, in a hoarse whisper. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” she said slowly. She was sitting at the table again, while Ed stood against the wall, his hands in fists at his sides. “So you came to me to help you win a fight with your brother? To help you cheat your way to a Philosopher's Stone so you can wipe away your sins?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not like that—”</p><p> </p><p>“It is,” she said. “It’s exactly like that.” She looked him in the eye. “I should know.” </p><p> </p><p>And she told him. The baby, the failed transmutation, the gate and the pain and the way it destroyed her from inside. Her sin for his. An equivalent exchange.</p><p> </p><p>He stared at her after she finished speaking, pale and shaken. “I didn’t know,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>“Of course not.” If the child had lived, he’d be a few years older than Ed was now. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” he said softly. She didn’t know if he meant her loss, or his sin. He was staring at the floor, frowning, his hands still stiff at his sides, a bright red bruise already starting to come up on the side of his cheek where he’d hit the ground earlier. He hadn’t changed all that much, after all, since the last time she saw him. </p><p> </p><p>She stood up. Ed flinched when she reached out, but she ignored it and pulled him into a hug. </p><p> </p><p>For a second, he froze, going rigid against her, almost pulling away. Then she felt his forehead tip against her shoulder, his weight sagging in her arms. He whispered something. She couldn’t catch it. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s all right,” she said, and Ed started to cry. </p><p> </p><p>At first it was quiet, interspersed with whispered apologies, muffled in the fabric of her house dress. Then she felt something snap in him, and suddenly he was sobbing, big ugly shaking breaths that rocked his whole body, that caught in his throat and turned into choking coughs. She didn’t let go. </p><p> </p><p>She’d have given anything, just then, to hug Al too. </p><p> </p><p>She held him for a long time. Ed just cried, sobbed like a little kid, like she’d broken the seal on something pent up as long as she’d known him. She held him close, his face still tucked against her shoulder, getting snot and tears on her, and she cupped the back of his head with one hand and rubbed circles on his shuddering back, feeling the uneven weights of his hands as he clung to her. She heard a noise and looked up to see Sig in the doorway, concern stamped on his face. She shook her head slightly, <em> not now</em>, and, with a nod, he vanished again. </p><p> </p><p>They could talk later. She’d expel Ed later. For now, she was just here, holding steady against the onslaught of his sobs, the anchor holding him down. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The day after Ed went to Dublith, Winry and Granny finished the big job. The client took the train out from Pendleton and arrived in the morning, wearing a rumpled suit and a sweaty smile that broadened when Winry showed him his new leg, and took only the slightest of hits when Granny showed him the bill. After he left, Winry dragged herself up the stairs and fell asleep the instant her head touched the pillow. </p><p> </p><p>She woke up some uncertain number of hours later to a dry mouth and what could have been either sunrise or sunset. For a minute, she lay in bed, savoring the quiet and the feeling of doing absolutely nothing, her hands still, her arms and legs stretched out against the soft mattress. It was <em> great</em>, doing nothing. </p><p> </p><p>She got up, swaying with a yawn that sent cracks and shivers down the length of her back, and padded downstairs to get some water and find something to eat. It was evening, she decided, watching the golden light creep across the baseboards in the kitchen. She’d slept half the day, and once she got her water and a cup of tea and a sandwich, she planned to go right back upstairs and do the same thing again. </p><p> </p><p>Al was sitting in the kitchen. “Hi,” Winry told him, moving around his bulk to get to the sink. Al didn’t answer, and Winry turned that little oddness over in her head as she took down a cup and filled it up, moving slowly through the lingering fog of her nap. </p><p> </p><p>“Everything okay?” she tried. Al hummed a <em> yes.</em> He was looking at the smooth tabletop, unmoving. Winry sipped her water, waking up a little more, and moved to the stove to put the kettle on for tea. </p><p> </p><p>Ed hadn’t talked to him. Winry was pretty sure of that—he’d very pointedly ignored her advice on that, in fact, and now poor Al looked so lost. Winry felt the familiar spark of annoyance. Ed never got the easy stuff. For someone who was supposed to be a genius, he was shockingly dumb. </p><p> </p><p>“What’s going on with you and Ed, anyway?” she asked. Al jerked his head up. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” he said. It wasn’t quite the answer Winry was expecting. <em> Nothing</em>, actually, was what she was expecting. That was what they usually said. <em> Nothing; it’s fine, Winry; forget about it; it’s okay. </em> Not “I don’t know.” Al was watching her now, like he was waiting for her to answer her own question. Like he really wanted to <em> know</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened in Central?” she asked. “Ed told me…some of it, but—I don’t know, he said there was other stuff he couldn’t say. Stuff he’d get in trouble for, or lose his certification.” For some reason, Al shifted when she said that, an odd little spasmodic <em> clank </em> she couldn’t read. “He said…he said you two got in a fight with some guys like you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Guys like me?” Al said. His voice was loud, suddenly, echoing just above the level of comfort in the close little kitchen, and there was a ring to it that Winry, if she didn’t know better, would call hostile. But Al wasn’t hostile. </p><p> </p><p>“He said there were other people without bodies, like you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Al said, and there were volumes she couldn’t read in that syllable, “yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>Something was <em> wrong </em> here, and Winry couldn’t figure it out. Ed was in Dublith, or he said he was, miles away and lying to Al, and Al was too quiet and too loud and making no sense in the little he <em> would </em> say, and Winry still didn’t know what happened, what <em> exactly </em> it was that left Ed beat to shit and Al looking like this and the two of them so mad at each other that they couldn’t even say the reason aloud. She wanted to cry. She wanted to smash their heads together until they cut the bullshit and talked. Or, failing that, she wanted to at the very least understand. </p><p> </p><p>The kettle started shrieking; she took it off, and watched dark tendrils swirling as she poured the water into her mug. Al was silent again, as if he’d been switched off, as if the conversation was over. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s in Dublith,” Winry said abruptly. She’d promised Ed to keep Al from following him. She hadn’t said anything about not telling him where Ed was. “That’s where he went. I don’t know what he told you.” </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t move. “He said he was going to South City for his assessment.” </p><p> </p><p>“Assessment?” </p><p> </p><p>“His annual assessment. As a state alchemist,” Al explained. “Every year, state alchemists are required to report on the findings of their research in order to maintain their status. He has to give an account of how he’s used his research money, too.”</p><p> </p><p>“He uses it for snacks,” Winry commented. </p><p> </p><p>Al nodded. “He calls it ‘raw materials necessary for alchemic research’ in the report.” </p><p> </p><p>Winry snorted. That was Ed, all right. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t talk to you,” she sighed, balancing her chin on her hand. “I told him he should. He said he was going to talk to your teacher. You should call him. You two should talk.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Al said. “Maybe I will.” </p><p> </p><p>They fell silent. For a long time, they sat together without speaking, sharing the sunset while Winry sipped her tea and Al stared at the dying light on the tabletop, both of them listening to Granny grumble at the radio on the other side of the wall. The evenings were getting colder, the last few nights, and Winry was grateful to be in the warm kitchen, surrounded by the sounds of home and love. If she could just get Ed and Al to start acting sensible, she thought, things would be, well—not perfect, but about as close as any of them were likely to get. </p><p> </p><p>“Winry,” Al said, startling her out of her thoughts, “before my brother became a state alchemist, did he ever say anything about a homunculus?” </p><p> </p><p>“Homunculus?” The word felt odd in her mouth. Sort of foreign, sort of taboo, and she didn’t even know what it meant. “What’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s an artificial human,” Al said. “It’s a legend. It’s really old.”</p><p> </p><p>Winry felt her stomach twist. “You mean—like—” But Al shook his head. </p><p> </p><p>“Not like our mother,” he said, and there was something odd and careful about the way he said that, <em> our mother</em>, each syllable clipped and stiff <em> . </em> Not <em> Mom. </em> “The theory is—a person that’s never existed before, created from alchemy.” </p><p> </p><p>She scratched her head. “You know Ed never talks about that stuff with me,” she said. “Or, if he did, I don’t remember. You two were both doing so much research back then, I don’t know what it was all about. But I don’t think—no, I don’t remember anything like that. Why?” </p><p> </p><p>“He never talked about—anything like that?” Al’s voice was strained. Almost desperate. He was nearly begging her. </p><p> </p><p>She shook her head. “What’s wrong, Al?” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t answer. He made a little noise, something halfway between a laugh and a sob, and then he was quiet again, an inscrutable iron mass, staring straight ahead with those blank, motionless eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Al,” she said, the sick feeling still swirling in her gut. “You have to <em> tell </em> me. If something’s wrong, I need to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing’s wrong, Winry,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>His voice was so sweet. So soft and light. Her skin crawled. </p><p> </p><p>“Winry!” Granny called from the next room. </p><p> </p><p>She went out to answer, and Granny showed her the query that had come in from a rich old lady in East City, for a hand with special inlays to help her cheat better at poker. </p><p> </p><p>“Weak,” was Granny’s comment. “If you need automail to help you cheat, you don’t deserve to win.” </p><p> </p><p>“She’s rich, though,” Winry pointed out. Her mind wasn’t really on the order. </p><p> </p><p>“Not for long,” Granny said, grinning wickedly. </p><p> </p><p>When she went back to the kitchen, Al was gone. He’d probably slipped out the back, off to wander in the fields like he always did at night. Winry knew he liked the quiet; knew that both the brothers missed the country, even if Ed always griped about getting sheep shit on his boots every time they came through. She made herself a sandwich and went back upstairs, sleep already drifting through her head.  By morning, she thought, things would be better: Ed would come back, and Al would cheer up; they’d talk things over and make up, and by dinner time everything would be back to normal. The storm would pass, and they’d be at home again. </p><p> </p><p>If she closed her eyes and really hoped, maybe it would all come true. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It could have gone worse. It could have gone a <em> lot </em> worse, Ed reflected the next morning as he dabbed at the bloody scrape on his cheek where he’d connected with pavement outside. He’d come here knowing she might actually kill him, and somehow— <em> somehow </em>—he was still conscious and breathing. With four functioning limbs, no less. Fuckin’ incredible. </p><p> </p><p>The whole thing had been confusing. Ed felt weird about it. She’d yelled at him, and she’d hugged him, and then she’d expelled him and told him to stay for dinner. And now he was in her guest bedroom, blinking in the late morning light and oddly dizzy after the first full night of sleep he’d had in over a week. He felt drained, embarrassed, guilty. </p><p> </p><p>He also felt hopeful. </p><p> </p><p>They’d talked it over last night, by the dying fire, while Sig and Mason cleared the dishes away from dinner: how to get Al back to his body without the Philosopher’s stone and without getting anyone hurt. They’d broken down the possibilities, alchemists dissecting the composition of the problem, and Ed had learned to his shock that the <em> thing </em> he’d seen that night—the heavy gate, the faceless face, that voice that was so familiar and so unearthly at the same time—was <em> real</em>. Or, someone else had seen it, anyway. </p><p> </p><p>It felt <em> weird</em>, talking about it. He’d never said a word about it, even to Al, even when it showed up in his dreams night after night, every single night for at least a year. But Teacher knew about it—she’d seen the same thing, or something a lot like it, and apparently it was the key to the whole thing. </p><p> </p><p>“Al must have seen it,” she said, frowning slightly. “He paid the bigger toll.”</p><p> </p><p>“But he still needs a circle,” Ed said. “I mean, he can’t just—” He clapped, miming. “Maybe he doesn’t remember.” </p><p> </p><p>“That could be,” she said. “You were both children. That’s not something a child ought to see.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed objected to that—<em> he’d </em> seen it, and he’d been fine, and Al was just as tough as him—but she wasn’t wrong. Just talking about it, he felt sick to his stomach, so maybe Al had blocked it out, pushed the memory aside so he could move forward without its weight. He was a lot better at that than Ed was. </p><p> </p><p>“What if he remembered? What then? Do you think he could—go back?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” she said. There was a pinch in her brow; she didn’t like not knowing any more than Ed did. “I don’t think anyone knows. But,” she said slowly, “that’s where I’d start.” </p><p> </p><p>It was an answer without an answer, but it was something. A place to start. </p><p> </p><p>Or, it might have been, if he hadn’t fucked everything up before he could even get to square one. </p><p> </p><p>After breakfast, during which Izumi announced that he’d be contributing to the household as long as he stayed under her roof and that he could start by doing the dishes, he used the phone in the butcher shop to call the Rockbells’ shop. He tried to ignore the anxiety stirring in his gut as he listened to the line buzz on the other end. It was stupid. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d lied to Al. It was just the first time he’d lied <em> and </em> gotten them expelled at the same time. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Apologize. Get that over with. Break the bad news. Ask if he’s seen Truth. Then you can go home.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Easy. </p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” It was Winry on the other end. Great. Another person who was gonna be pissed at him. </p><p> </p><p>“Hi,” he said, and heard her gasp on the other end. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> Ed, </em> ” she said. She sounded like she’d been crying? <em> Shit. </em> “I was trying to call—I didn’t know your teacher’s number—I didn’t know how to get ahold of you.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh shit. <em> Shit</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened? Is Al there?” <em> That </em> was definitely a sob. Fuck. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s—I’m sorry, Ed—that’s the problem. We can’t find him.” </p><p> </p><p>Fucking <em> great</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?” His brain wasn’t working right. He couldn’t think. “He’s. He’s <em> big</em>.” It was about the stupidest possible thing he could have said, but giant suits of armor didn’t just <em> disappear</em>. They couldn’t. He couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“He went out for a walk,” Winry was saying. “I <em> thought </em> he was just going for a walk. Last night, we were talking, and he seemed upset, but he—he hasn’t come back, and nobody in town has seen him.” </p><p> </p><p>This was his fault. This, indisputably, irretrievably, was his entire stupid <em> fucking </em> fault. He’d tried to keep Al safe, and instead he’d just done the exact opposite. Al was out there on his own now, and it was because of him. Mason was giving him a weird look. Ed thought he might just puke. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, Ed,” Winry said, tears threatening to choke her. “He’s gone.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>New title! New chapter! Big day! I finally know where this is going and I can say with some confidence that shit is gonna get realer in the next chapter. </p><p>Come find me on tumblr! I’m @happymeatgoodtaste.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. underground</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roy wasn’t procrastinating. That was important to know. A distinction <em> lost </em> on his immediate subordinates, regrettably, but it wasn’t the first time they’d had an irreconcilable interpretation of events. </p><p> </p><p>Over the past week, he’d actually been incredibly productive. He’d been reaching out to his contacts in Central, laying down the groundwork for an effective intelligence network once the transfer papers went through, and on top of that he’d been assembling an impressive list of allies he’d need to cultivate once they got there. That, and fielding Hughes’s constant calls. He’d made a forty-centimeter tower out of cards, too, in between all those meetings and calls. So, really, he was getting a hell of a lot done. The Lieutenant could give him a break about writing his final report. </p><p> </p><p>The truth was that preparing for the transfer was proving to be a bigger pain in his ass than he’d expected. It ought to be a straightforward process, packing up the office to ship up to Central, but once they got down to it a hundred road blocks and left turns seemed to slow the whole train down. First there was the sandwich Havoc had left in his drawer about ten months ago, which ground the entire office to a halt as they all gathered around the eldritch puff of green mold and debated the need for a haz-mat team to remove it. In the end, Hawkeye put on rubber gloves and threw the thing away while Breda wondered aloud if it was right for her to throw a living thing in the garbage like that. Havoc was assigned to garbage duty after that, as punishment for introducing a potential biological contaminant into the office environment. </p><p> </p><p>Then there was the matter of the decorative paperweights. They’d been a gift to everyone at Eastern Command from General Grumman, two or three years ago—nobody could quite remember—big brass fish and dogs and what Falman was pretty sure was meant to be a monkey. They’d been strewn across the office since then, playing the role of projectiles as often as they served their actual intended function, and now nobody could agree on whose was whose, or <em> what </em> the monkey-old-lady-demon paperweight was actually supposed to be. That ate up an afternoon. </p><p> </p><p>The fact that Roy had managed to get <em> any </em> work done in the middle of all that was impressive. A testament, he thought, to his dedication and superior talents at delegation. He’d had Fuery clean out his desk drawers for him, and the job had been done by dinnertime. Managerial brilliance in action. This was why he got promotions. </p><p> </p><p>How the Lieutenant was able to look at his record that week and still manage to give him grief over the damn report—a formality at best, something Grumman would take a single glance at and toss into the garbage pile—was beyond Roy. The woman was cruel, fundamentally, he decided. She had no respect for his process. </p><p> </p><p>So it was the last thing he needed—really, literally, the <em> last </em> thing—when, halfway through the first page of the report, he got a call from Fullmetal. </p><p> </p><p>When he first picked up, he was expecting Hughes. After all, he’d been calling on a near-hourly basis, mostly to talk about his wife and speculate about the likelihood of Roy dying a premature and lonely death if he didn’t clean his act up, but always with that annoying little grain of genuinely valuable intel that meant Roy couldn’t just hang up the moment he heard his voice. Maes was infuriating like that. </p><p> </p><p>“If you say a word about my love life,” he said this time before Maes could get a single word out, “I will <em> personally </em> burn the first hundred pages out of every book you own.” </p><p> </p><p>“Colonel?” </p><p> </p><p>Shit. That was Fullmetal. That was Fullmetal, and something was wrong, because his usual snotty voice was gone, replaced by something much more serious and much more distressed. The kid sounded <em> frantic</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Fullmetal,” he said. “What’s wrong?” He tried to remember where those kids were now. Ed had been discharged from the hospital almost a week ago, and Hughes had said—hadn’t he said they were headed back east, to Resembool? Something about Ed’s arm. Roy had to admit to himself that he hadn’t been one hundred percent listening. In his defense, he’d been <em> busy.</em> And Hughes was an ass. </p><p> </p><p>Ed was breathing hard. It sounded like he’d been running. “Al is missing.” </p><p> </p><p>Missing? “What do you mean? Where are you?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m in Dublith,” Ed said. “I went to see our teacher, I left Al back in Resembool—he’s gone now, he disappeared or something and nobody knows where he went, he’s <em> never </em> run away like this before and I don’t know where he went, he didn’t tell anyone where he was going and nobody saw him leave town so he could be anywhere now and it’s been almost two days—” </p><p> </p><p>“Fullmetal!” Roy interrupted. “Slow down. <em> Breathe</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em> breathing, asshole.” That was closer to normal Ed. “How else would I be able to talk? You’re so stupid.” </p><p> </p><p>Out of an abundance of maturity, Roy chose to ignore that. “It’s only been two days,” he pointed out. “Maybe he came to meet up with you. There’s no reason to assume that he’s in trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>“He was mad at me,” Ed said. Roy felt a twinge of discomfort at how <em> miserable </em> the kid sounded. “I—back at the Fifth Laboratory, I—I couldn’t get his body back, I messed everything up, and he’s been mad at me ever since. He hasn’t said it, but I know he is, and now he’s <em> gone </em> and I gotta find him before—” He broke off. Roy figured he could fill in the rest of that sentence in a gruesome variety of ways. </p><p> </p><p>“All right,” he said. “All right. So he’s angry at you, and you think he’s run off. To do what? And why are you calling <em> me </em> about it?” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t <em> know</em>,” Ed spluttered. Roy could feel that venomous stare even through the phone. It was impressive, actually, how much Fullmetal despised him. Roy sort of got a kick out of it. “I guess—you’re military—you could put out a search, or, I don’t know, send out the MPs, or—I don’t <em> know</em>, Colonel Genius, why don’t you tell me.” </p><p> </p><p>“Your brother isn’t military personnel,” Roy pointed out, “and we’re not the police. Plus, Resembool isn’t our jurisdiction anymore. We’re transferring up to Central in two days. File a missing persons report if you’re really worried,” he finished, in an odd little burst of sympathy. He really did feel bad for the kid. He sounded like he was losing it. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em> fuck </em> you,” Ed said. He was breathing heavily still. “Fuck you, Colonel. If he dies, it’s gonna be your fault too.” </p><p> </p><p>That was awfully direct. Roy figured he knew how to play that game, too. “Do you <em> expect </em> him to die, Edward?” </p><p> </p><p>He heard the gulp at the other end of the line so distinctly it was as if Ed was in the room. For a long time, he didn’t answer. Then, in the smallest voice Roy had ever heard him use, he said, “He’s the only family I’ve got left, man.” </p><p> </p><p>Well, shit. Maybe Roy had handled this the wrong way. He’d wasted time on the paperweights and he’d put off writing the damn report, and now he’d been mean to a kid for no particularly good reason, other than that the kid in question annoyed the hell out of him. Which was fair for the most part, but, okay. Maybe he’d gone a little too far. Maes would probably give him shit for it the next time they talked. </p><p> </p><p>He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Look. We really are busy here, and it really is kind of outside my jurisdiction. But I’ll see what I can do. Breda’s got some friends in the local sheriff’s office, and I know someone who works on the main rail line between here and Central—I’ll ask her to keep an eye out for your brother. Sound good?”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Ed said. He sounded beat. “Just call me if you find anything.” </p><p> </p><p>“I will,” Roy promised. “We’ll find him, Fullmetal.” </p><p> </p><p>“You better,” Ed said, and hung up. </p><p> </p><p>Well. That was a snag. In the middle of the transfer, with Hughes running absolutely wild in Central and starting, if Roy was completely honest, to actually worry him a little, now he had an Elric brother in the wind and another one on the verge of a breakdown. He’d learned a long time ago that Elrics in crisis were always a recipe for chaos. Chaos, and a lot of fucking paperwork. </p><p> </p><p>If that was how it was going to be, he figured, he’d better get the report out of the way now. He glanced at the clock. It was just past midnight, meaning that Maes hadn’t called in nearly three hours. If Roy was lucky, he had twenty more minutes to work before he got interrupted again. He sighed, picked up his pen, and got back to work. </p><p>
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</p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was a good day for Bido. Hot for that time of year. He never could stay warm outside once the summer passed, but today the sun was a little closer to the earth than it had been yesterday, unobstructed by cloud or rain, and the pavement under his feet sent baked-in warmth up through Bido’s body. Oh, yeah, it was a good day. </p><p> </p><p>It was a good day for another reason. Word had come through—well, Bido didn’t know who, exactly, only that Mr. Greed had said the information was good—that the Fullmetal Alchemist was in town. </p><p> </p><p>“Who’s that?” someone had asked, and Greed had laughed, his head thrown back, his teeth showing. </p><p> </p><p>“A kid,” he’d said. </p><p> </p><p><em> A kid </em> didn’t seem worth getting excited about. </p><p> </p><p>“A kid who knows how to bind souls.” </p><p> </p><p>That was the key; that was why Bido was above ground today, slipping around Dublith’s back roads and alleys, tracing the map he’d been given and trying to stay in the sunshine. The Fullmetal Alchemist was staying on the west side, in the apartment above the Curtis butcher shop, and Bido had been given the job of bringing him in. </p><p> </p><p>Somewhere above him, from an open tenement window, a song was playing. Bido didn’t know the words, but he whistled along anyway. </p><p> </p><p>It was a good day. </p><p>
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</p><p>Ed’s first instinct, when he heard Al was missing, was to hop on the next train out of Dublith. The only problem with that was he didn’t know where the train should be going <em> to </em>: Al hadn’t given any clue as to where he was heading, and all Winry could tell him was that he’d been asking questions about Ed’s certification exam, of all fucking things. He racked his brain, trying to think where Al would go, but every time he thought he had the answer, another one occurred to him, and he couldn’t afford to be wrong. </p><p> </p><p>His second instinct was to kick the wall until his automail broke through the plaster. Instincts three and four were to panic and cry, and he ignored them. </p><p> </p><p>His fifth instinct was to call the Colonel, who gave him a bunch of bullshit about Al not being official military personnel and thus not his fucking jurisdiction, but he did eventually agree to do a couple of useful things. But all that amounted to was the Colonel and his guys keeping their eyes out for Al, and Al might not even be heading to East City. He might be going north, or to Central, or out of the country altogether. He might be heading to the fucking <em> moon</em>. </p><p> </p><p>It bothered Ed a lot—like, significantly more than he cared to admit, even to himself—that he had so little clue. Normally, he’d be able to trace Al’s line of thought at least a little ways, and fill in the gaps himself from there. But right now, Al was unreadable. It was as if some line of communication—some literal psychic tether—had been cut, and Ed was flying blind. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, at Teacher’s urging, he decided to do the thing that was at the dead bottom of the list of things he wanted to do: nothing. </p><p> </p><p>“If he’s coming here, he’ll show up by tonight,” she’d said, and he had to admit that was one of a hundred likely possibilities. Winry had said, after all, that she told Al where he was—she apologized. Odds were, Al was just coming to meet him here, annoyed at being left behind but not, maybe, homicidally or otherwise irreversibly mad at Ed. So he’d wait till tonight, and if by tomorrow Al still hadn’t shown, he’d figure out his next steps then. </p><p> </p><p>But Al was gonna show tonight. Of course he was. Ed kept telling himself that, hoping it would make the ache in his gut go away. It didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>He sat down to dinner with the rest of them, but one bite in and his stomach lurched, and when he pushed his plate away Teacher just nodded, not looking at him. He apologized under his breath, grabbed his coat, and ran outside. </p><p> </p><p>Night had fallen, and the streetlamps were glowing along the block. Ed took a deep breath of cool air, trying to will his heart to slow down, trying to decide if he was actually going to be sick or if it was just his stomach fucking with him after a full day of feeling one second away from all-out panic. He took another breath, one more, and felt the nausea recede to a tolerable, if not exactly pleasant level. </p><p> </p><p>He started walking toward the train station. The next train wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, but he couldn’t go back inside and spend another twenty minutes doing the same thing he’d done all day, which was to say: <em> nothing</em>. As he rounded the corner to the next street, he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to look, but the road was empty. </p><p> </p><p>Goddammit, it really was getting to him, wasn’t it? He was turning into a paranoid bastard. </p><p> </p><p>He shoved his hands into his pockets and carried on, following the twists and turns of the route to the train station and trying to think about anything <em> other </em> than someone splitting Al’s blood seal in two. Which was really fucking <em> hard</em>, since telling himself not to think about it meant thinking about it, and thinking about it meant his heart rate picking up, and—</p><p> </p><p><em> Stop. Slow down. Breathe. </em> That’s what the Colonel had said, right? </p><p> </p><p>“I am breathing,” Ed said to himself. </p><p> </p><p>Behind him, somebody laughed. Ed had time to turn, to see a ragged cloak and a skinny arm and a big eye illuminated in the light from the nearest streetlamp, and just <em> barely </em> enough time to say “What the <em> fuck</em>” before something very hard connected with his head, and the eye and the cloak and the street disappeared. </p><p> </p><p>He woke up underground. At least, he was pretty sure it was underground. It <em> smelled </em> underground. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry about this,” a voice said. “It was the easiest way.” The same voice that had laughed, before. Ed was putting the pieces together. He was over the guy’s shoulder, his head bouncing at every step, and they were walking—well, more like running—through what looked, and smelled, like a sewer. </p><p> </p><p>“Put me down,” he croaked. The guy laughed again, and yep, it was definitely the same guy. </p><p> </p><p>“Can’t do that, sorry,” he said. “I’m under orders from someone a whole lot scarier than you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Put me down, or I’m gonna throw up on you,” Ed said. “I’m serious.” </p><p> </p><p>He was. At his first gag, the guy dropped him like a ton of bricks, and Ed rolled onto his knees to lean over the sluggish stream of the sewer and hurl repeatedly. It didn’t feel like his greatest moment. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re really a state alchemist?” was the guy’s comment, and <em> for fuck’s sake</em>, that was his takeaway? Ed wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve and sat back, breathing hard. His head <em> hurt</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he said. “What, you want my money? Is that what this is about? Fucking take it, I don’t care. I don’t have <em> time </em> for this.” </p><p> </p><p>But the guy laughed again. “We don’t need money,” he said. “Come on. You’re ready to go? You might as well walk on your own, you’re not gonna get away from me down here.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed couldn’t really argue with that. He didn’t know the Dublith sewers, and from the look and the smell of him, this guy knew them by heart. He looked like a fucking frog. Or a lizard, maybe. Between that disadvantage and the fact that his head was swimming hard enough to set him off balance at every other step, Ed figured the best thing to do now was the same thing he’d been doing all day. Nothing. Follow the lizard guy, figure out what the point of this dumb little kidnapping gag was, and he’d come up with a plan then. Who knows, maybe once he got back to the house Al would be waiting there. They could all have breakfast together tomorrow, and laugh about how crazy this all was. </p><p> </p><p>Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Ed. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, Lizard Guy led him into a part of the sewers that smelled a little less actively disgusting, and also looked like it wasn’t necessarily supposed to be there. The passageways looked weird, a little too narrow and with ceilings a little too low. They were in some kind of basement, but something about it felt disconnected from the outside world. It was oddly warm, oddly quiet, and the light was weird. Or maybe that was just Ed’s head. He should probably get it checked out, if he got out of here alive. </p><p> </p><p>They reached a door, and the lizard guy grinned. Ed <em> hated </em> that.</p><p> </p><p>“Welcome,” he said, and swung the door open. </p><p> </p><p>The room was full of people—way more people than Ed had expected to be in on this. He kind of figured Lizard Guy was acting on his own, or maybe with a crew of a couple other freaks (“<em>we </em> don’t need money,” he’d said). But this was, like, a bunch of guys, all with the same shady, homeless look, and they were all looking at Ed. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, God. They were gonna have him make drugs for them. That had to be it. They were gonna keep him in this basement and make him transmute drugs until he died so they could sell them and shoot them up, and Al was gonna die alone because Ed was stupid enough to get kidnapped by Dublith’s scuzziest drug ring. </p><p> </p><p>“Is that him?” A new voice interrupted his train of thought. Whoever it was was sitting in the shadows, set a little apart from the rest of the group. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir,” Lizard Guy said. The shadows moved. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve gotta be <em> kidding </em> me.” </p><p> </p><p>The guy was tall, with spiky black hair and an outfit that looked to be mostly black leather, cut to show off his fairly impressive muscles. He was grinning down at Ed, showing oddly sharp-looking teeth, his eyes obscured behind tiny round shades. None of that was what Ed was focused on. </p><p> </p><p>It was the back of his left hand. </p><p> </p><p>That tattoo. A red dragon, winged, eating its own tail. </p><p> </p><p><em> The Fifth Laboratory</em>. </p><p> </p><p>The guy saw him staring. “Huh?” He held up his hand, turning it over as if he’d just noticed the tattoo there. “This thing?” he asked. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve seen it before,” Ed said. His head was starting to clear; it still <em> hurt</em>, but not like before. He could stand up straight. “Who are you?” </p><p> </p><p>The guy grinned. “You can call me Greed,” he said. “I’m a homunculus.” </p><p> </p><p>“A <em> what</em>?” That made no sense. That was a legend, a myth, a really <em> old </em> myth at that, something Ed probably wouldn’t have known about if their dad didn’t have a weirdly huge collection of stupid old book nobody else in the world had ever heard of. Homunculi were a story people had told each other thousands of years ago. They didn’t <em> exist</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Homunculus,” the guy repeated, as if Ed’s listening comprehension was the problem here. “An artificially created human.”</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no such thing.” </p><p> </p><p>“No such thing as no such thing,” Greed said, that stupid grin spreading a little wider. “Here. I can tell you’re a skeptic. Lemme show you.” He waved for a guy standing near the door, a man built, now that Ed noticed him, like Sig or Major Armstrong. The guy came over. </p><p> </p><p>And he knocked Greed’s <em> head </em> off. </p><p> </p><p>Ed jumped back just in time to avoid being splattered with brains, but the sound was unmistakable. </p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> hell</em>,” he started to say, but then the puddle of blood and grey matter pooling around Greed’s headless corpse started smoking, sparking, swirling with energy Ed recognized immediately. <em> Alchemy</em>. And then Greed started to <em> move</em>, his body staggering upright as the storm of alchemy blazed around his shattered neck, and holy <em> fuck</em>, that was what a head growing back looked like. Muscle on bone, skin on muscle, and yep, Ed was gonna throw up again. </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t, just barely. He watched Greed’s eyes spark back into consciousness, and dodged again as the guy shook blood out of his hair. </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Greed said, “so that was me. Dying. Resurrected. You get the picture. Impressed yet?” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m gonna kill you,” Ed said. </p><p> </p><p>Greed stared for a second, then threw back his head and laughed. “I like you, kid,” he said as soon as he got his breath back. “You see a guy come back to life, and that’s your response? Oh, we’re gonna have fun.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, but I actually had plans tonight.” </p><p> </p><p>“Too bad.” There was a gleam in Greed’s eye Ed didn’t like even a little bit. “You see, I’m greedy. It’s kind of my whole thing. Call it my fatal flaw or whatever. I get what I want. And you have something I want.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah?” Ed was scanning the ceiling, the walls, the nonexistent exits, trying to come up with a strategy. Al was out there, lost, and Ed was listening to a honest-to-god homunculus talk about his personality flaws. He <em> really </em> didn’t have time for this. </p><p> </p><p>“Immortality,” Greed said. <em> That </em> got Ed’s attention for a second. </p><p> </p><p>“No I fucking don’t.” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure you do,” Greed smirked. “Your little brother.” </p><p> </p><p>“My <em> what </em> ?” Ed felt like the guy had just dropped a giant ice cube into his stomach. Was <em> that </em> it—Al hadn’t run away, he’d been kidnapped, dragged here by whoever these people were. Ed stopped looking for a way out and started looking for wherever they’d hidden Al. “What did you do with him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Me? I haven’t had the pleasure,” Greed said. “Honestly, when I heard you were in town, I figured he’d be with you, but we don’t really need him. It’s <em> you </em> we need.” </p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” Ed said. His head was spinning again. “So Al’s not here? You haven’t seen him?” </p><p> </p><p>“Were we supposed to?” </p><p> </p><p>“Damn it,” Ed spat. So nothing had changed, then. Al was still missing, and Ed was still wasting his time in this basement talking to a crazy person. Crazy <em> artificial </em> person. Whatever. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, kid,” Greed was saying, “this doesn’t have to be hard. All I want from you is to show me how to bind a soul. The way you did with your brother’s.” </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> what</em>?” </p><p> </p><p>Greed leered. “Don’t act so shocked. You think your brother’s body is some big secret? Kid, half the country knows that armor’s empty. Hey, I don’t judge. None of us do here, right? Everyone here’s a little…different.” He grinned around at the rest of the guys, all of whom seemed to agree. Ed saw nods and chuckles from most of them. Greed turned back to him. “Actually, out of everyone in this room, <em> you’ve </em> probably got the closest thing to a normal body. And look at you.” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?” Ed eyed the guys ranged around the room. They all <em> looked </em> pretty normal. </p><p> </p><p>“They’re chimeras,” Greed said. “We got a dog, a snake, an ox, a lizard, a—what are you, Ulchi, an alligator?” </p><p> </p><p>The guy to Ed’s right shook his head. “Crocodile,” he said. </p><p> </p><p>“Crocodile,” Greed repeated. “Same thing. You get the picture, anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>“I really fucking don’t,” Ed said. “You’re immortal, man. You just got your <em> head </em> blown off and you’re still running your mouth. What the fuck do you want to know about binding souls for?” </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Greed said, “I know this <em> looks </em> good—really good, actually—but I’m not literally immortal. I <em> can </em> die, I just get a few more tries than most people. I just used one up proving to you that I’m not full of shit. Eventually, they’re gonna run out, and then, buddy, I’m just as mortal as you.” </p><p> </p><p>“So suck it up,” Ed said. “The rest of us do.” </p><p> </p><p>Greed laughed again. “Sorry, kid. That’s not good enough for me.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed wasn’t really listening. Something had stuck in his head, a few moments ago, something floating up to the surface to knock against something here in the room, something right in front of his nose. <em> Homunculus. An artificial human</em>. And these guys were chimeras. Why was that important? </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Greed was saying, “I’m gonna need you to break out those famous alchemy skills and help me out here. I’ll take you back home once you’re done. That’s a promise.” </p><p> </p><p>Back home.<em> Who was the boy in those pictures with you? </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Deal?” </p><p> </p><p><em> He was asking questions about your certification exam, Ed. He asked if I’d ever heard of a person created by alchemy</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Oh, fuck. </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He knew where Al was going. </p><p> </p><p>Greed’s hand was hovering in midair, waiting for Ed to shake on repeating the worst mistake of his entire life. Like he was gonna do that. That’s what mistakes are for, right? You learn from them. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry,” he said, hearing the shake in his own voice. “I’m gonna have to pass. I gotta go get my brother.” He moved towards the door. </p><p> </p><p>“Awww.” Greed sighed, looking genuinely disappointed. “I was really hoping we were gonna get to do this the easy way.” He shrugged, straightening up, hands on his hips. “Hard way works, too, I guess. I should warn you, though.” He rolled his shoulders, neck cracking loudly. “It gets messy.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed didn’t have the fucking time. “Just get out of my way.” He clapped his palms together, and spikes erupted from the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Greed danced out of the way of his first strike easily, hands still on his hips, eyebrows raised. “Not bad.” He shook his head at the chimeras, who were leaning forward. “Leave him to me. You go guard the corridor, make sure nobody’s coming after him.”</p><p> </p><p>Ed took advantage of that aside to send a concrete fist in the direction of Greed’s head. To his surprise, it didn’t come off this time. When the dust cleared, he could see a dark patch on the side of Greed’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“Sorry, kid,” he said. “It’s not gonna be quite that easy. I told you you were the only one here with a normal body.” </p><p> </p><p><em> What the fuck</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Greed launched himself at Ed, swinging hard. The guy knew how to throw a damn punch, Ed had to give him that. And there was something <em> weird </em> about the way he was fighting—no, about the way Ed’s strikes were landing. Or, not landing. Glancing off. Bouncing. It was like the guy was made out of fucking <em> steel</em>, but that didn’t make sense. The whole <em> point </em> of this stupid kidnap meeting was that he wanted a body like Al’s and didn’t have one. So what the <em> fuck </em>—</p><p> </p><p>Greed’s fist collided with Ed’s ribs. It knocked him halfway across the room, into a pile of crates that snapped and splintered under him. It hurt <em> way </em> more than it should have, and Ed had been punched in the gut before. Like, recently. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re good,” Greed said. From the fact that he wasn’t even breathing hard, Ed got the sickening feeling that the guy was humoring him. “Seriously. I’m gonna have to really <em> try </em> here.” </p><p> </p><p>Something was happening. Ed had blood in one eye, so he couldn’t see it happen very clearly, but <em> something </em> was spreading across Greed’s chest, down his arms and hands, swallowing up his head, coating him in bluish black. His face, transformed, was a skull in reverse: bared teeth, smooth skin, sharp narrow eyes peering out of darkness. His hands, all of a sudden, had fucking <em> claws</em>. </p><p> </p><p>This was fucked up. This was really, really bad. </p><p>The thing—<em> Greed </em>—laughed: a deep, grating sound. </p><p> </p><p>“Get ready, kid.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>An hour after Al left the Rockbells’, the sun set. An hour later, the stars came out. The moon rose over the treetops, a ragged half-sliver of light, and Al moved north under the smooth shadow of night. </p><p> </p><p>He kept close to the road, but not on it. Out here in the country, of course, no one was around to see him. In two hours, the only people he saw were an old man and a teenager urging a crowd of stubborn goats down a hillside. All the same, Al was playing it safe. Soon enough, he’d be moving into busier country, through villages and towns and eventually the city, and he had to make it to Central without being seen. Here, being seen meant being recognized. Farther west, being seen would mean being remembered; and being remembered meant that when Ed came looking for him—and he would, Al knew him too well to doubt that for an instant—he’d catch up fast. </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t mind him catching up. But not yet. Not until he’d gotten where he was going. Not until he’d seen what he needed to see. </p><p> </p><p>Lucky for him, he could walk all night without getting tired. Even on foot, he’d make good time: two or three days, he thought. Which meant two or three days alone in his own head. Two or three days before he got answers to the questions that threatened to deafen him. </p><p> </p><p>To distract himself from that, he watched the stars as he walked, naming the constellations. <em>Dog, farmer, laundry woman</em>. He could string the points of light together without thinking about it. The knowledge lived inside him. Where had it come from? Mom? Teacher? He had a vague pair of memories: Mom and Ed and a bed of dewy grass under his head, a gentle hand guiding his finger across the night sky; <em>see, right where you’re pointing—that’s his head</em>. And later, outside the city limits in Dublith, where the glow of street lamps faded enough to let through the marks of starlight, Teacher’s harsh voice listing off the names of planets. Which one was real? Or maybe that was the lie—maybe they were both fabrications, stories Ed told him without telling him they were only stories. </p><p> </p><p>He thought hard about it, trying to concentrate on details. The sour smoke of Dublith; the grass under his head. Mom’s voice. Every piece seemed as real as the next, and from a distance they all looked hazy, as if he was watching it all from under a deep well of water. </p><p> </p><p>He gave up. You can’t solve a puzzle from the inside. You need to stand outside the problem, break it down to its component parts: that’s alchemy. </p><p> </p><p>That’s why he was here, on his way to Central alone. The problem was simple, if he put himself as far outside of it as he could. </p><p> </p><p>Ed was the youngest state alchemist in history. A prodigy, an anomaly: everybody said so. He’d passed his certification exam at twelve years old, and despite causing trouble in the ranks, bickering constantly with his superior officer, and generally screwing around—Al had had a ringside seat for it all for four years—he’d passed his assessment each year, with flying colors. Snack funding and all. So he was still a state alchemist, still famous, still a prodigy. Still exceptional. </p><p> </p><p>He would have had to do something really impressive to do all that. Something new. </p><p> </p><p>Al had read all of Ed’s annual reports. He helped with the spelling. He knew that the research Ed was reporting to the military was mainly related to the Philosopher’s stone—their journey together, with all the dangerous parts cut out. But he’d never seen Ed’s original certification results. </p><p> </p><p>He’d heard Ed’s story, of course: that he went for the Fuhrer, that they’d come at him with guns, and that was that; they let him in. It had always bothered Al, and up until recently he’d thought it was just the recklessness—<em> they could have shot you, Brother; you could have been court-martialed </em>! Now, he wondered. </p><p> </p><p>What if he’d never seen Ed’s results because he was in them? What if <em> he </em> was the result? </p><p> </p><p>He’d been too stupid to notice it once before. Too stupid, too trusting, too sure that only good could come out of alchemy. So when he’d seen Shou Tucker’s lab, he’d been excited. Nothing more. He hadn’t seen what was coming until it was too late to do anything but watch it all happen. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t ask Ed, of course. Not Ed, who’d felt Nina’s death with every ounce of the guilt and horror Al had, but who couldn’t keep that pain from invading his body, suffocating him and disrupting his sleep. He’d had nightmares for weeks. If Al was wrong, Ed would never forgive him for wondering. And if he was right—</p><p> </p><p>Well, if he was right, it wouldn’t matter either way, right? Al kept trying to tell himself that. </p><p> </p><p>He had to find it for himself. He had to see the documents, the original reports from when Ed first got certified, and then he’d know for sure. He hoped he was wrong. He <em> thought </em> he was wrong, because Ed would never do such a thing, so he had to be wrong. </p><p> </p><p>Probably. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe.  </p><p> </p><p>You can’t solve a problem from the inside. </p><p> </p><p>So he was going to Central, under cover of night, with the stars spread out over his head like a map he’d forgotten how to read.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm just so glad Greed is here. I love that freak. </p><p>I'm also glad you all are enjoying this story! This chapter marks what I think will be roughly the halfway point, if everything I have planned ends up happening. I appreciate each and every one of you and love seeing your comments and kudos; come follow me on tumblr @happymeatgoodtaste and watch me fall apart over memes and sad shit.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. central</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was blood in Ed’s eye. He couldn’t see. There was blood in his ear, dribbling down his neck, welling under his tongue, sticking to his fingers and dripping onto the concrete below. There was a <em> lot </em> of it in his shirt, weighing down the fabric near his right hip, a warm sponge against his skin. He’d been bleeding there for a while, and now it was running down his leg, hot and itchy underneath the leather. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Are you dead yet?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He wasn’t sure. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The basement was <em> wrecked</em>. For a guy who claimed to not like fighting, Greed didn’t seem to have a lot of reservations about going all-out. He’d broken Ed’s thumb a little while ago. Ed was pretty sure, from the way the bones ground together every time he tried to make a fist. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, there was that. He’d broken some ribs again, he was pretty sure. Whatever was happening right above his right hip was probably gonna be a problem at some point. He’d hit his head more than once, but never to the point of lights out, so he was good to go. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just giving himself a moment to rest, that was all. Time to regroup. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He lifted his right arm to try and wipe the blood out of his eye, so he could at least <em> see </em> where he was aiming. Once he got his field of vision cleared, he could see the arm didn’t look great. The outer plating was busted off along the forearm, wires exposed, and something was sparking in the elbow. But the thing still moved like nothing was happening, painless and easy. God, Winry was great. He was gonna have to remember to tell her sometime. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You done?” Greed asked. “You look done, kid. Let’s call it a day.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sure,” Ed said. His voice sounded weird. He was pretty sure he’d bitten his tongue. “Let me go find my brother.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Greed laughed. “Not how it’s gonna work, sorry.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ed wasn’t sure when he’d crossed the room, but suddenly he was right there, gripping Ed’s collar with those giant fucking claws, hauling him up. </p>
<p>“You get that it’s nothing personal, right? I just need what you’ve got. I really don’t care how we do this, but you’re gonna have to give up soon.” He glanced around, smooth dark head lolling creepily. “I mean, you’ve lost, like, a gallon of blood. How much blood can humans lose, anyway?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Up to forty percent,” Ed said, trying not to choke on the blood running the wrong way down his nose. “Technically. About two liters.” Greed’s knuckles were pressed against his throat; they felt like iron. Harder than iron. Stone. But that wasn’t <em> possible. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is that so?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah.” The room was spinning. <em> No such thing as no such thing. </em> “Humans are stronger than you think.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Greed laughed again. The asshole was having fun.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Blood is oxygen. You need oxygen to live. You’re not getting enough oxygen. </em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Listen,” Greed was saying. “You’re done. Just tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> Oxygen. Combines with hydrogen and carbon to create carbohydrates. That’s what powers the body: those three elements. Oxygen’s sixty-five percent of the body. Hydrogen, 9.5 percent. Carbon, 18.5.  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carbon. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oh, for <em> fuck’s </em> sake. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Greed dropped him when he started to transmute, but Ed was pretty sure it had worked. He’d felt something change under his left palm. He was even more sure when Greed lunged, and he swung his arm out to meet the punch, and it <em> happened</em>—that stupid black shell peeled back, flaying Greed’s hand down to muscle and bone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fucking <em> carbon. </em> Of all things. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What the fuck did you do?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was Ed’s turn to laugh. “Like I’m gonna tell you. But I can do it again.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Greed’s face hadn’t exactly moved—Ed wasn’t sure it <em> could </em> move—but what had been a leer a minute ago now looked more like a snarl. “Don’t fuck with me, kid.” The shell was already growing back, sparking and hissing, but Ed wasn’t worried. Like he’d said. He had a strategy now. He had the upper hand, finally. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That pissed Greed off, apparently, because he came back harder than ever, but it was easier now. He’d gotten a second wind, or something, and now he knew how to break through that impenetrable ugly skin of his and actually do some <em> damage</em>. It felt good. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was so focused on the feeling that he didn’t hear the noise in the hall until a second before the door burst open. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Edward Elric!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ed blinked towards the door. Was that...the Fuhrer? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He really <em> had </em> lost too much blood. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Fuhrer—but it <em> couldn’t </em> be the Fuhrer, that made no sense—strode into the middle of the room, arms crossed neatly behind his back. His uniform was pristine. He’d just strolled in here, in the middle of the night, hundreds of miles from the capital. In a <em> sewer </em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fullmetal Alchemist,” he announced brightly, “I am relieving you of the task of subduing this criminal.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey,” Greed said. “No fair.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Be my guest,” Ed said, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor. You probably weren’t supposed to talk to the Fuhrer like that, but his leg was starting to give out underneath him. “Look out, though. He’s reconstituting his body. Carbon in his skin.” Getting out words was suddenly <em> really </em> hard. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh?” The look that crossed Bradley’s face was, if Ed had to give it a name, amusement. “You don’t say.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Ed said, and fell. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Things moved at a weird pace after that. He stayed where he was for a while, right knee stinging where it had hit the cracked concrete, watching Greed and Bradley fight out of the corner of his eye. Then someone was picking him up, slinging his arm over their shoulder and pulling him upright, their voice in his ear telling him to get his feet under him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’re getting you out of here, sir,” they said.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I gotta go find Al,” he said. His tongue had to be swollen to twice its size now. It stung. He could feel the rough patch on one side where he’d taken a chunk out. “I gotta go to Central.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“We’re taking you to the hospital,” the voice said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Like he didn’t know that. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I figured it out,” Ed said. “I figured out why he’s mad at me.” He swallowed blood. Too much. He coughed, splattering his chin. “I gotta go get him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If there was an answer, he didn’t hear it, because that’s when the chill that had been curling at the edges of his consciousness closed in abruptly, and darkness blocked his vision. </p>
<p>
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<hr/>
<p>
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</p>
<p>Roy could never remember, afterwards, exactly where he’d been when he heard the news about Hughes. Everything on either side stood out in clear detail. That awful, bizarre phone call, completely unlike all the others and cut short with a definitive <em> click </em> that echoed in Roy’s brain repeatedly for days afterward. And, on the other side, the journey to Central, his precious long-awaited <em> transfer </em> doubling as a funeral train. He’d drunk a cup of oddly sour coffee and listened to two women in the seat behind him discuss a third friend that neither of them cared for much, and tried, at Hawkeye’s urging and without an ounce of success, to nap. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But the actual <em> moment</em>—the moment that must have happened, when someone had related that specific fact to him, had actually confirmed the thing he’d thought the instant he heard the <em> click </em> and couldn’t consider directly until the information was incontrovertible—that escaped him. Either he’d blocked it out after the fact, or his brain never recorded the event at all. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Well. That’s the first stage, isn’t it? Not that Roy had time for five stages. Two was more than enough for him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Between the transfer and the new assignment he’d given himself, the one that consumed every minute outside of the constant meetings and meaningless handshakes that made up his first few days in Central, he accomplished something that week that he’d been trying to do for four full years. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He forgot about the Elric brothers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t intentional—after all, he hadn’t managed it when he <em> was </em> trying. But in the first seventy-two hours following Hughes’s death, Roy slept for about fifteen minutes, and broke about four different major regulations. A possible missing persons case on behalf of his most annoying subordinate wasn’t exactly at the top of his list of priorities. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After the funeral, he went straight to the records division. He’d gotten a key from Scheska earlier. It was the only thing that made sense. Twelve hours until his next meeting meant twelve hours to follow Hughes’s last footsteps and hope that it led him to something in the shape of an answer. For hours, he pulled bound volumes down from the metal shelves, scanning page after page, not even sure what he was looking for, praying as much as trusting that something would fall into place eventually. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It didn’t. Staring at a list of executed prisoners, each name as meaningless as the next, he watched the words on the page swim suddenly in front of his vision, a helpless well of rage stirring in his gut.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He shut his eyes. He was too fucking <em> tired</em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That was the problem. He shut the book, putting it back on the shelf with a note to himself of where he’d left off. He looked at his watch. It was nearly five—far too late to bother going back to the empty little apartment the military had put him in. He’d go back to the office, try for a few minutes of rest on the couch, and get started again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just a few minutes. That was all he needed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Central Command was pleasantly quiet at this hour. As he walked back across the courtyard to his new office, he could hear birds singing. Or he thought he could. In all honesty, he’d been hearing things for the past few hours. That <em> click</em>, over and over again. He was already learning to tune it out. But then there were other sounds, older ones. Artillery fire; combat flames. He’d heard Maes’s voice saying his name, twice, in the echoing silence of the record room. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It didn’t bother him. Not really. Just a stress reaction. Perfectly normal. The ghost of battle fatigue, dredged up by grief and fatigue of the usual sort. Not worth dwelling on. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dragging himself into the office, he was surprised to find Lieutenant Hawkeye there already. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” he demanded. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She turned away from the box she’d been unpacking, cool eyes scanning what he assumed was his general disarray. He figured he looked awful. He hadn’t expected to be seen by anyone who would care. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I came in early, sir,” she said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I can see that.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I hope it isn’t a problem,” she said, her gaze steady. She was holding one of the damn paperweights. The dog. “I thought I might accomplish more in terms of organization before the rest of the unit shows up.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’re probably right,” Roy said. He was suddenly so tired that staying upright felt like a ridiculous expectation. Crossing the office, he collapsed on the couch. “Wake me in fifteen minutes.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course,” she said, and for ten minutes Roy didn’t sleep so much as float, detaching from his body and hovering weightless around the ceiling while darkness rushed through him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, of course, the goddamn phone rang. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hawkeye answered it, but Roy was awake already, straightening his uniform jacket and trying to press his skull, which felt roughly the size of a balloon, back into shape. “Hello,” Hawkeye was saying, and then, in a very odd tone, “<em>Edward</em>?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em> Shit. </em> Roy had completely forgotten about Ed. He’d called, what, three days ago? Two? Five? He’d been worried about Al, and Roy couldn’t even remember why. It was like trying to call back information from another life, the one he’d had on the other side of that damn echoing <em> click</em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why’s he calling?” he asked Hawkeye, who threw him a sideways glance. Roy hadn’t seen that look of puzzlement very often. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s here,” she said into the phone, and Roy sighed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Go ahead. Give him to me.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She carried the phone over, tucking the receiver against her shoulder for a second before she handed it over to him. “He’s—” She shrugged, giving him the phone without finishing the sentence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Colonel</em>?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fullmetal was—<em>oh </em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Hey</em>, colonel.” His voice was odd, rubbery, slurring on the last syllable so that it dragged out absurdly. “What’s. Where’s Al?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was <em> high. </em> Roy knew what he was hearing. He didn’t know <em> why</em>. “What the hell is going on?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Nothing</em>,” Ed said, a little squeak of protest in his voice. “I didn’t do <em> anything</em>.” Which meant, clearly, that he had. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roy sighed. “Where are you?” He thought back. He’d been in Dublith last, right? “Why are you calling me this early?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is it early?” Ed sounded genuinely surprised. “Oh. I’m—” Roy could <em> hear </em> his sharp little huff of frustration. “They put me in the hospital.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That explained a little. So he was on painkillers. Roy’s patience for this conversation was draining fast. “Tell me what happened, or I’m hanging up.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh,” Ed said, “you know. I got in a fight. Guy made out of carbon. You know. Some guys kidnapped me, some guys, uh, in a sewer.” There was an odd little strain in his voice, as if it hurt to talk. “Where’s <em> Al</em>?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Back up, Fullmetal. A <em> sewer</em>?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I tried to call Hughes,” Ed whined, and Roy’s stomach lurched. “Lazy bastard didn’t pick up. Tell him to answer his damn phone, huh?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roy closed his eyes. “Forget about it, Fullmetal.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I know where he is,” Ed said, and for a minute Roy’s stomach lurched. But Ed was talking about Al. Of course he was. He was already going on, still slurring his words: “I know where Al went. He’s in Central. You’re in Central, right?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Roy sighed. “Yes. I’m in Central.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m coming to Central,” Ed announced. Roy could hear an abrupt flurry of noise on the other end of the line: Ed grunting, and something metal clattering against tile. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ll do no such thing,” he said flatly. The last thing Roy needed was Edward Elric, apparently semi-seriously injured and impaired by opiates, running around Central City looking for a brother Roy promised to find for him days ago. God only knew what he’d do when he found out why Hughes wasn’t answering his phone. “You said he’s in Central, right? I’ll put a detail out looking for him.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It took a little further arguing. Roy found himself annoyed for the hundredth time that monetary bribes never went anywhere with this kid. In the end, Ed was interrupted by a nurse coming in to replace, apparently, an IV that he’d dragged out. Roy experienced a moment of profound sympathy for the woman whose voice he could just hear on the other end of the line through Ed’s vocal complaints. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Listen,” he said sharply. “You’re no good to your brother until you’re recovered. Do as you’re told, and leave Al to me. I’ll find him.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s smarter than you,” Ed informed him. Roy honestly would believe it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’ve got an intelligence network,” Roy reminded him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh. Yeah.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You sound tired,” Roy said. “Get some sleep. I’ll send someone to bring you to Central in a few days.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why’re you being nice to me?” Ed asked. “Stop being creepy.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m not,” Roy said. “I’m reducing the paperwork I’ll be responsible for if you do something stupid.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he hung up, with a promise to have Ed’s certification revoked if he left for Central without approval, Hawkeye was watching him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He doesn’t know,” she observed. Roy didn’t bother asking what she meant. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He doesn’t need to,” he said. “Not yet. Someone can talk to him when he gets here.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hawkeye nodded. “There’s still half an hour before the others are scheduled to arrive, sir. If you wanted to sleep, there’s time.” Roy shook his head. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There’s work to be done.” </p>
<p>
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<p>
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</p>
<p>On Monday, Breda’s watch broke. That was a pain, in part because it had been a gift from his father, but mostly because it meant that he was half an hour late to the office, which meant that when he arrived, out of breath and annoyed at the world, the Colonel had already given out assignments to the rest of the team. Which meant that Breda was saddled with the only task left over. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ve got to be kidding.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Colonel didn’t bat an eye. “Why would I be kidding?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m supposed to just run around Central looking for a kid? Why can’t Havoc do it?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Havoc,” Mustang pointed out, “arrived on time today. Besides, I need him somewhere else.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Remind me why we aren’t just calling the police?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You know why.” And, fuck it, Breda guessed he did. He still didn’t understand the ins and outs of those kids’ situation, but he figured he knew why they wouldn’t want the police looking too closely at Alphonse. <em> Goddammit</em>. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It wasn’t that Breda didn’t like Ed and Al. Or, well, he sort of didn’t, but it wasn’t personal. He didn’t like <em> kids</em>. Not even his own nieces and nephews. He didn’t know why Mustang had brought the kid on as a state alchemist—not just allowed it, but actually <em> encouraged </em> it. Breda didn’t see the sense in that. Every time Ed and Al came around, Breda got this irritating feeling of apprehension under his skin. With kids, trouble was inevitable. With these particular kids, it was downright automatic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Damn it, he’d better get a commendation in his file for this. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On his way out of Central Command Headquarters, Breda stopped at the little coffee shop across the street from the main gate. If he was gonna be on his feet all day, he figured, he might as well start with a little fuel. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You new in town?” the guy behind the counter asked. He looked like he’d spent the last fifty years, give or take, behind that counter: mild eyes under thick gray eyebrows and weathered hands as rough as the wooden countertop. Breda figured, with soldiers crossing back and forth from the gate all day, someone like him had to stick out.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Sure. Just transferred in from the east.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You don’t say.” The guy nodded thoughtfully, handing Breda a steaming cup of coffee that smelled surprisingly non-rancid. “Hope you’re finding your way around okay.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Mmmm,” Breda answered noncommittally, scanning the stale pastries in the case. “Say, you wouldn’t know somewhere I could get a watch fixed?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A watch?” The guy didn’t even have to think. “Maxwell’s, down on Seventh Street. Take a right when you leave here, four blocks down, two west. It’s a little place above the massage parlor, there isn’t a sign. Tell him Henry sent you.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Henry?” The guy nodded. “Nice to meet you. Heymans Breda.” He picked out a roll and paid for his breakfast. “I guess you know the folks around here pretty well, huh?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I guess I do.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“See anyone unusual around here lately? You know, blue hair, weird tattoos, guy in armor—that kind of thing?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Henry handed over the change, his face expressionless. “Nothing like that.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was worth a try. Breda pocketed the coins, thanked Henry, and left. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He spent the day wandering the streets, checking in at restaurants and hotels, striking up conversations with shopkeepers and librarians and a taxi driver waiting down by the train station for a fare. Being new in town was both a hazard and a convenience: asking for directions offered a natural starting point, and then all that was left was for Breda to make some comment about the crazy people who seemed to turn up in Central—“I’m a country boy myself, not used to that kind of thing”—and the question asked itself. The answer, annoyingly, was always the same: nobody had seen a guy in giant metal armor clanking around Central. Not today, not this week, not for a while now. Breda thanked Mustang for putting him on such an exhilarating assignment. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By Wednesday, he had to admit he probably had it better, at least, than Falman. The Colonel had found some other armored freak—an escaped convict, actually, from what Breda understood—and the poor bastard had gotten roped into babysitting a disembodied serial killer. Barry the Chopper: Breda remembered the stories, vaguely, although he’d sort of thought the guy was an urban legend. But apparently the urban legend had cornered Hawkeye herself on Tuesday night, and Breda had to laugh at <em> that </em> image, imagining the moment when the guy realized he’d picked about the furthest thing from an easy target in the whole of Central City. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>What exactly the endgame was, Breda didn’t know, and he hadn’t had time to ask. He was still on Al duty. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You seen a guy in weird armor recently?” he asked the lady pouring his tea at the sandwich shop off Twenty-Eighth Street. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“A what?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Never mind,” Breda sighed. At least he was getting his lunch paid for. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The story behind the whole Elric situation was still foggy to Breda. Mustang’s briefing hadn’t been enormously helpful. Apparently, they’d had some kind of fight while they were out of town, and now Al was in the wind, and for some reason, Ed—who, Breda gathered, had gotten into trouble of a nature the colonel couldn’t describe down south—was convinced that his little brother was headed for Central. Breda was starting to doubt the kid’s predictive abilities. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On Friday, though, he started hearing things. A man working down by the garage that serviced military vehicles said he’d seen a guy in armor early that morning, on his way into work. Later, when Breda moved uptown in the direction the mechanic indicated, he found someone who’d seen Al heading towards the old second branch of the National Library. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He’s that alchemist’s brother, isn’t he? I think I heard about them,” she said, studying Breda’s insignia. “Child prodigies, huh?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Something like that,” Breda said, and thanked her. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>For about an hour, it seemed as though he was closing in. Al was definitely here, in Central City, and by tomorrow Breda would be off this stupid assignment and back, hopefully, in the Colonel’s good graces and being clued in on what the hell was going on with the armored murderer and the secret interrogations and the top-secret officially non-existent investigation into Brigadier General Hughes’s murder that he, Breda, definitely wasn’t supposed to know about. Officially. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But then the trail went cold. It was as if Al had disappeared, all three hundred and whatever pounds of him, as if he’d never been in Central at all. It was uncanny. It pissed Breda the hell off. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Havoc skipped out on drinks that evening to go see his new girlfriend, some chick named Solaris whose existence Breda was still skeptical of. Falman was still deep in Barry-land. Fuery and Hawkeye were on a hush-hush mission. They’d had a lot of those cropping up recently. Breda, empty-handed and annoyed at the world in general, headed back to headquarters to give his report to Mustang. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The newspaper was on the desk when he arrived. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ve seen this?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Breda picked the paper up. <em> Maria Ross Arrested. </em> The fine print under her smiling photo read <em> prime suspect in the slaying of Brigadier General Maes Hughes</em>. So there it was: after a week of heightened security and held breaths across the command center, the other shoe was dropping. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Fuck’s sake,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I couldn’t agree more.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“They’re really going with that?” Of all the unlikely patsies the brass could have chosen, Breda had trouble thinking of a worse pick than Ross. Because of course that’s what this was. Breda hadn’t known her well, but their paths had crossed. A damn sweetheart. Smart, too. She knew how to handle herself. “Who’s buying it?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Apparently, the ballistics evidence was conclusive.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Damn.” Breda felt exhausted suddenly. “Oh,” he added, “Alphonse is in the city. Just can’t figure out where, exactly. Little bastard’s good at hiding, I guess.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good,” Mustang said. He was still facing the window, watching sunset crawl across the rooftops. “I sent a sergeant down to Dublith to bring Fullmetal here. He’ll be arriving tomorrow.” Breda sent up a note of gratitude to any higher power listening for that sign of hope for the end of his babysitting mission. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How’s Falman?” he asked. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Still on leave.” Mustang shook his head. “His uncle’s very ill, apparently. And they’re very close.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Breda snorted. “Sorry to hear that.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The phone rang on the desk between them, a sharp bellow cutting through the brief silence. Breda looked back down at the newspaper in his hand as the Colonel answered. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hello?” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Breda could hear Falman on the other end of the line, but couldn’t make out the words. A few moments later, another voice broke in, unfamiliar and brassy. The second voice had been speaking for barely a minute when Mustang slammed the phone down. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What was that?” Breda asked. He knew the look in the Colonel’s eye. It was either very good news, or very bad. Either way, it looked like it might be a long night for Breda. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mustang didn’t answer. He was already at the door, pulling his coat on. “Follow me.” </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shorter chapter this time, but there's another (longer) one on the way soonish: I think we're two chapters from the end here. This is the annoying setup stage: pieces are moving into place, and everything gets moving again in chapter 6.</p>
<p>Anyways, happy Saturday! Breda is here!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something wrong with the train. That had to be it. Sure, Ed was tired and cranky and about as impatient as he’d ever been, leaving Dublith days after he’d planned, but that couldn’t explain why the train to Central was moving so fucking <em> slow</em>. Two hours on the hardest seat Ed had ever had the bad luck of putting his ass on, and it felt like they’d barely left the city. </p><p> </p><p>Even so, he’d left sooner than he was supposed to, before the hospital wanted to let him go and before the colonel’s guy showed up from Central. That, at least, Ed counted as an advantage. Yeah, he had some stitches he’d probably have to cut out later, and sure, he kind of wished he was still lying down instead of getting his skeleton rattled by the world’s slowest train on the longest ever trip to Central, but at least he wasn’t doing it with some obnoxious babysitter sergeant stuck to his elbow the whole time. </p><p> </p><p>Speaking of his elbow, that was a little bit of a problem. Greed had all but shattered the automail, stripping off the outer plating and slightly mangling a couple of the fingers—they still <em> worked</em>, more or less, but it was kind of a pain to get a grip on anything. That was less concerning, though, than the way his elbow was moving—there was a weird sort of <em> click </em> every time he bent it, a little echoing pop that gave him a mini heart attack every time. He would swear he could feel something rattling loose. But trying to take apart your own elbow was surprisingly hard, and Resembool was too far away, and he couldn’t afford either the lost time or the certainty of bringing down Winry’s wrath on him for breaking his arm for the third time in what even Ed could admit was a really fucking brief window. </p><p> </p><p>Besides, it wasn’t technically <em> broken</em>. He just had to be careful not to move it too much. </p><p> </p><p>When the train finally, <em>finally </em> groaned into Central Station, he honestly wanted nothing more than to get to the hotel, drag himself up to a room, and sleep for about fifty hours. But Al was still out there, somewhere, alone in the city where a crew of possibly-artificially-created assholes had killed a guy exactly like him a few weeks ago. So sleep could wait. </p><p> </p><p>Without exactly planning to, he walked to Central Command. Somewhere to start. He didn’t know where Mustang’s office was, and he didn’t care. He hoped, in fact, that he’d be able to leave Central without ever having to actually get face to face with the guy. He could only imagine that transferring within a stone’s throw of the Fuhrer’s office had multiplied the colonel’s obnoxiousness factor by, like, ten thousand. Right now, Ed was pretty sure he’d rather actually die than have to talk to him. </p><p> </p><p>It was Hughes, he realized, that he wanted to see. The guy was almost as annoying as the colonel (no wonder they were such great friends), but if anyone had answers, it was usually Hughes. Ed wasn’t dumb; he knew Hughes’s biggest-fucking-busybody-in-Amestris act was just a way to make sure he always knew everyone’s business before they did. Besides, Al might have come to see him. Al liked Hughes. </p><p> </p><p>Something weird was going on at the command center—some kind of training exercise, maybe, because the place was busier than Ed remembered, with people asking for his clearance every five fucking seconds. After the third person asked, he kept his watch out of his pocket, ready to shove in people’s faces when they tried to get in his way. </p><p> </p><p>If Ed’s suspicion was right—well. Okay. Ed didn’t know exactly what it was he <em> did </em> suspect. It was a gut feeling, not a clear hypothesis. But Al had been asking questions about the photos back at the Rockbells’, and he’d acted weird ever since the Fifth Laboratory. He’d asked Winry if Ed knew anything about creating people with alchemy—and he <em> knew </em> , he knew better than any single other person in the universe <em> exactly </em> how much Ed knew about that. Ed figured he knew what all that added up to. What he couldn’t figure out was where Al had gotten the idea. Why <em> now</em>? And what the hell was he planning to do about it? </p><p> </p><p>Whatever Al was planning, he’d come to Central. Ed was sure enough of that. Whatever happened to get him questioning his own existence, it happened at the Fifth Laboratory. But the lab was a pile of dust, and Central was a big place. Ed’s head and leg and stomach hurt too much to think, and as much as he wished he could read Al’s mind, he couldn’t. Never really could. It worked in the reverse, annoyingly enough, but when Al wanted to hide, he knew how to slip past Ed every time. He’d lost so many fucking games of hide-and-seek when they were little. </p><p> </p><p>He just needed to find Al. Just <em> find </em> him, that was all—make sure he was alive, and okay, and then he’d apologize. He’d say all the things he’d never said, out of stubbornness or arrogance or plain selfish fear, and then Al could make his choice. </p><p> </p><p>Ed wasn’t gonna presume to ask for his forgiveness. Real or not, he’d put Al in a body that made no sense, put him at risk again and again like getting Al in trouble was his job, and then he’d led them both down a dead end that nearly <em> did </em> get them killed. But he couldn’t shake the dreams, the sound of Al screaming every time Ed closed his eyes. The hospital had been hell. So Al could forgive him, or not, and Ed would understand. He just needed to know his little brother was <em> okay</em>. </p><p> </p><p>The court martial office was quiet: a short corridor of rooms hushed by old red carpet and lined with forbidding shelves of court documents. Hughes wasn’t there—in fact, picking his way through the place, Ed couldn’t find his desk; the one he thought was the right one had someone else’s nameplate. Maybe he’d been transferred, like Mustang? But Ed hadn’t heard anything about a transfer, and it wouldn’t be like Hughes to disappear like that without making a big fuss about it.</p><p> </p><p>Was he lost? Was he just in the wrong fucking office? Two concussions in two weeks, so it wasn’t like his brain was operating on all four cylinders—which, thanks, Greed. But the door said <em> Court Martial</em>, and the layout was what he remembered from the time Hughes had dragged him there so he could show him the goldfish his kid had drawn. He’d had the damn thing framed on his desk. But the desk was here, and Hughes was gone.  </p><p> </p><p>“Ed?” It was Scheska. The bookworm. She’d know. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” he said, turning to greet her. “You’re still working here?” </p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” she said, confusion blooming on her face, and okay, so maybe not <em> everybody </em> in the military was moving offices. Just anyone who Ed needed to talk to, it seemed like. “And you,” she asked, “are you feeling better today?” </p><p> </p><p><em> Huh? </em> </p><p> </p><p>“Feeling better?” He must look even worse than he thought. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Scheska said, suddenly flustered, “I thought—weren’t you sick yesterday?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was in Dublith yesterday.” </p><p> </p><p><em> That </em> got a very strange reaction. “But,” she began, “Al said—”</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Al </em> was here?” So he’d been right. So Al <em> had </em> come to see Hughes. Ed felt an odd little burst of relief that he’d gotten one thing right. </p><p> </p><p>But Scheska was shaking her head. “Not here. The records office. I have a key, so I let him—I mean, he had your watch. He said you weren’t feeling well.” Ed’s hand shot into his pocket, where the damn silver watch sat like a weight. He must have transmuted a fake, and of <em> course </em> Al was good enough to get that by security. Scheska frowned. “You didn’t send him?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed shook his head. “He’s—never mind. He was <em> here</em>, though, you saw him?” </p><p> </p><p>She nodded, then shook her head. “I saw him. But not here. He called me, he said that you needed to see your official file—to check on one of your old research reports, he said?” The furrow in her brow deepened as she looked for confirmation that Ed couldn’t give. <em> What was Al looking for? </em> “Well, I thought it was—I mean, I guess I thought it was a little odd that he wanted to come after hours, but I’ve been working late anyway, and I figured, um, I knew that you two have been working really hard on something, so I just thought—is he okay? He isn’t in any trouble?” </p><p> </p><p>Who fucking <em> knew </em> the answer to that <em> . </em> “It’s okay, Scheska.” Ed tried to slow his heart down, tried to put his thoughts in a usable order. <em> Al was here. Al is alive. </em> “Where did he go? Did he say where he was staying? Did Hughes talk to him, too?” </p><p> </p><p>Something changed. The worry on Scheska’s face gave way to something sharper. The goddamn <em> air </em> turned cold and brittle. </p><p> </p><p>Ed felt sick. There was something here, right at his fingertips, and he didn’t know what it was. “What?” </p><p> </p><p>Scheska was—was she starting to <em> cry</em>? No, no, no. Ed had fucked up enough lately already. Now he was making random girls cry, and he didn’t even know what he’d <em> said</em>. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said, like <em> she </em> was the one who’d done something stupid, like Ed wasn’t the biggest piece of shit to ever live. “Don’t you—I’m sorry, haven’t you heard—you don’t know about Brigadier General Hughes?” </p><p> </p><p>About—? </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Security was up all around the command center. It was weird. Ed had noticed from the minute he’d stepped through the main gate. He’d never seen so many goddamn MPs swarming around the place. </p><p> </p><p>“They still don’t know what happened,” Scheska was saying. Her voice was almost a whisper. Ed wanted to scream at her to shut up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d been out of town.” </p><p> </p><p>The desk was there. The name plate was gone. The drawing of the little goldfish was gone. </p><p> </p><p>He’d just <em> been </em> here. </p><p> </p><p>“They just arrested the killer this morning,” Scheska said, and all the oxygen went out of Ed’s body. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you talking about,” he said, his voice too hoarse to make it into a question. He <em> had </em> to be hearing wrong. There had to be some kind of <em> mistake</em>. “They arrested— <em> what? </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” Scheska said. “Second Lieutenant Ross killed General Hughes last week.” </p><p> </p><p>What happened next, as far as Ed could tell, was that his mind—his spirit, his soul, the thing screaming at him to get out—disconnected from his body. He watched himself apologize to Scheska; couldn’t hear or feel what he was saying, but sensed the reflex at work. He left the court martial office at a walk and then started to run, pelting down the hallways and out into the street as fast as he could. He didn’t know where he was going. He couldn’t <em> see </em> where he was going, only the message flashing in his brain so insistently there was no room for anything else. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s your fault.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You did this.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> It happened because of you. </em> </p><p> </p><p>That was the truth. That was the monolithic fact in front of Ed right now, and there was no getting around it, no talking himself out of it, nowhere to hide. So he kept on running. </p><p> </p><p><em> This is your fault</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he stopped; he hadn’t gotten very far. His good leg was shaking, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t get enough air in to keep going. He leaned against a wall, breathing hard, wondering if he was going to puke. It wasn’t so much that he felt sick—he couldn’t feel his body at all—but it sort of seemed like a reasonable thing to do. </p><p> </p><p><em> Keep breathing. You’re alive. You and Al both. </em> </p><p> </p><p>That was the last time he’d seen Hughes alive. </p><p> </p><p>Ed smashed his forehead against the stone. He couldn’t get the guy’s voice out of his head. </p><p> </p><p>That was the problem, wasn’t it? Counting <em> alive </em> as a win. He’d dragged himself back from the gate, pulled Al out of there and into a living hell, and he’d sold his soul to the people who created the philosopher's stone just so he could keep insisting on his own stupid life. Sure, Nina had died, and Mom had died twice, with a noise the second time that Ed could still hear if he just closed his eyes, and now Hughes was dead too, but <em> Ed </em> was alive. So that made everything okay, right? </p><p> </p><p>Al had been right to leave. Al always was the smarter one between them. </p><p> </p><p>He slid down the wall, letting his right leg stretch out in front of him, hugging the metal knee in towards his heart. For a while, that was all he could do, trying to count his breaths as they struggled in and out of his chest. It was an old trick Mom had taught him, something to do when everything seemed too scary, or when he got so mad he couldn’t remember to breathe. It was hard to imagine what he’d had to be scared or angry about back then. </p><p> </p><p>Slowly, he started to feel his body again: the cold pavement underneath him, the soaring pain that wrapped around his head, the sting in his stomach where his stitches weren’t quite healed. It was getting cold, he noticed. Some time between when he’d gotten to the court martial office and now, afternoon had turned into evening, which was on the verge of turning into night. It wasn’t cold enough to make his teeth chatter, but they were doing that anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He pushed himself up off the ground, and felt the scary little <em> pop </em> in his elbow again. His arm was definitely about to break. It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago, he’d been really worried about it. Who the fuck cared? </p><p> </p><p>Okay. Think. </p><p> </p><p>Now that his brain was reconnecting, the second part of what Scheska had said was starting to come back to him. <em> The killer was arrested this morning. </em> Second Lieutenant Ross. <em> That </em> didn’t make sense. Ross worked for the military; she was Armstrong’s guy; she’d taken Ed to the hospital after the laboratory fell. She’d have no reason to kill anyone, least of all Hughes. She was also, Ed was pretty sure, the nicest soldier he’d ever met in his life. He’d seen some pretty unbelievable things—just a few days ago, a guy died and came back to life right in front of him—but Lieutenant Ross as some kind of cold-blooded killer didn’t add up. </p><p> </p><p>Unless—</p><p> </p><p><em> Of course</em>. Of fucking course. She’d taken him to the hospital after the laboratory fell. She’d <em> been </em> there, at the laboratory. Ed’s memory of that part was hazy—waiting for the ambulance with Ross, concrete dust in his windpipe and pain blotting out his vision every few seconds—but she’d been there. She’d helped Al carry him out to the street, away from the wreckage. She’d had her gun on her, ready in case the strangers in black came back. </p><p> </p><p>She’d seen them. And they’d seen her. That was the problem. Ed had brought her into this, and now whoever wanted him alive wanted her dead, and they were using the military to get the job done. Ed didn’t know what the trial proceedings looked like for a second lieutenant accused of murdering a superior officer, but he figured he could guess exactly how they ended. </p><p> </p><p>He had to stop it. Somehow. </p><p> </p><p><em> How? </em> The voice in his head asked. <em> You couldn’t stop it before. You couldn’t save Hughes. You couldn’t save Nina. You goddamn arrogant little bastard, why do you think this time is gonna be any different? </em> </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t have an answer to that. He didn’t have time to get to the bottom of <em> that </em> particular question. </p><p> </p><p><em> Stop it. Fucking </em>think. </p><p> </p><p>There was Major Armstrong. Her superior, the guy she took orders from—but if Ross was under arrest, Armstrong had to be under tight surveillance. Guy’s subordinate goes off the rails and shoots a Lieutenant Colonel? Yeah, Armstrong might as well be locked up himself. </p><p> </p><p>He could go back to the court martial office. Scheska had to know more about the situation. But Scheska was a librarian, a nerd who’d been in the military for about five minutes, and the thought of going back to the court martial office right now made Ed’s throat clench up so hard it hurt. </p><p> </p><p><em> Crap</em>. He knew who he had to talk to. There was one guy at the intersection of all of this, one guy who would know exactly what the hell was going on, who probably knew what to do about Ross, and who might just be the only person in the city who had a clue where Al was. He just happened to also be the <em> last </em> person in Central City Ed wanted to talk to right now. </p><p> </p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” he said to the air. </p><p> </p><p>He must have known, Ed realized, the last time they talked. He’d known, and he hadn’t said anything. Ed had thought he was being <em> nice</em>. He really did feel sick now. </p><p> </p><p>Whatever. Time for that later. He had to find the colonel, and get him to clear Ross’s name. The <em> how </em> of it all, Ed couldn’t see just yet, but he’d figure it out as he went. Like he always did. How great had that worked out so far? </p><p> </p><p><em> Just this one</em>, he whispered to whoever or whatever was listening. <em> I won’t ask for anything else. Just let me fix this thing. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Then he’d find Al. Then he’d apologize, and then—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Getting ahead of yourself, Ed.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Turning out of the alleyway, he looked at the street signs, trying to get his bearings. He’d ended up several blocks north of the command center, and getting back would take a little while. With the sky turning red above him, he started to run. </p><p>
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</p><p>The whole thing was ugly. Fucking <em> ugly. </em> All Breda had done was collect a bunch of chemicals and some pork bones the butcher on Fourteenth Street was getting ready to throw away. He hadn’t even <em> seen </em> the thing Mustang made out of it all, and he still felt like he needed a damn shower. </p><p> </p><p>Twelve hours, give or take, would tell whether they’d gotten away with it. Either the autopsy would pass without incident, or it wouldn’t, and then they’d have another set of problems to deal with. Breda was trying, for the moment, to not get ahead of himself. </p><p> </p><p>Still, he couldn’t even shower yet. He had to head back to the office; Mustang’s orders. Someone to hold down the fort while the colonel staged something halfway between an execution and a murder. Someone to call the safe house and make sure that Barry really had just knocked Falman out and not killed him. </p><p> </p><p>He was alive, sure enough. Alive, and pissed. “I’m getting too old for this,” he told Breda over the outside line behind Henry’s coffee shop. </p><p> </p><p>“Put the aspirin on the colonel’s expense account,” Breda suggested helpfully. He guessed that, as usual, he could at least console himself with the thought that Falman had it worse. </p><p> </p><p>Or, at least, he thought he did until he got up to the office and found Fullmetal pacing at the door. </p><p> </p><p>The kid looked <em> awful </em> . Massive shiner over one eye, busted-up automail, the works. He also looked like he was about ten seconds from losing it. Breda had seen that look before, never preceding anything good, and he hated himself for not approaching more quietly, because as soon as he saw Ed, Ed saw him. <em> Damn it. </em> No getting away now. </p><p> </p><p>Sure enough, the kid all but <em> launched </em> himself at Breda. “Where’s the colonel?” </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you were supposed to be in Dublith,” Breda said, navigating out of Ed’s reach. “Colonel said he was sending a guy down to get you.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed rolled his eyes. “Whatever. I’m here now. What the fuck’s going on?” </p><p> </p><p>Where to fucking begin? “It’s late, chief. Go home.” </p><p> </p><p>“Where’s the colonel?” </p><p> </p><p>“Busy.” Breda didn’t elaborate. He hadn’t gotten a damn briefing on how to keep the fucking Fullmetal Alchemist out of Mustang’s hair during a covert rescue mission. “Your brother’s in town,” he said. That oughta distract the kid, at least.</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t. “I know. Just tell me where the colonel is. I need to talk to him.” </p><p> </p><p>“About what?” This was the <em> last </em> fucking thing they needed: Fullmetal, the loosest possible cannon, interrupting the stunt that might just get them all court martialed or worse if things went south. </p><p> </p><p>“Second Lieutenant Ross,” Ed said. “She’s been arrested. Someone’s trying to frame her.”  </p><p> </p><p>No shit. “The colonel’s looking into it,” Breda said. “Come by tomorrow, you two can chat. Get out of here now, you look like shit warmed over.” </p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, seriously, find a mirror.” </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t <em> do </em> it,” Ed said. “She—someone’s trying to have her killed. This isn’t an <em> accident </em> .” Breda could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. He felt bad for the kid, really. Dead mom and all that. It sucked. But shit like this was <em> exactly </em> why Breda wished the colonel had just paid for Fullmetal’s therapy or something instead of slapping him with a silver watch and a badass title and calling it a day. </p><p> </p><p>“Look, kid,” he said, “it’s out of our hands, okay? Leave it to the grownups.” </p><p> </p><p>“I <em>fucking</em> outrank you.” </p><p> </p><p>Breda didn’t get paid enough for this. “What do you want me to do, huh, <em> sir</em>? You think I’m gonna send a kid out to help bring in an escaped convict? You think that’s gonna help anything?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed was staring at him suddenly, mouth hanging open. “Escaped?” </p><p> </p><p>Shit. “Forget about it. It’s being handled.” <em> Shit.</em> The colonel was gonna kill him for that slip. Forget that, <em> Hawkeye </em> was gonna kill him. </p><p> </p><p>“She <em> escaped</em>?” </p><p> </p><p>Breda sighed. “I never said she escaped. I said I’m not sending you out there. Go <em> home</em>, Ed.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m fucking done with you,” Ed spat. Breda wondered if that was supposed to sound tough. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait a minute,” he tried, but Ed was already leaving, sprinting down the hall away from the office, out of the building, into the night. </p><p> </p><p>Fuck. This was why Breda couldn’t stand kids. </p><p> </p><p>He debated going after him, but Ed was already gone, and Breda wasn’t sure what good him tackling a technically superior officer in the middle of all this was going to do. Besides, Breda had orders to stay at the office, ready in case a call came in. Let Ed go looking for the colonel; if he even found him, he’d be up against someone with the rank and the willingness to actually deal with him. Mustang played a big game of acting like he couldn’t give two shits about Fullmetal, but the pretense was paper-thin. Hell, he’d had Breda running around town all week looking for Ed’s kid brother. He’d know what to do. </p><p> </p><p>Breda looked at the clock. Twelve hours. They’d know in twelve hours if they still had careers. In the meantime, he figured, he might as well try to get the old coffee maker from East working. </p><p> </p><p>He hoped—really, really hoped—that would be the last eventful thing in his night. </p><p>
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</p><p>Roy figured he should feel something. </p><p> </p><p><em> What</em>, exactly, he should be feeling, he didn’t know. Guilt, maybe. Horror, probably. He’d technically committed human transmutation, of a kind, and torched a body to charcoal in the same night. It wasn’t real, of course, none of it was, but all the same, he had the feeling that he should be having <em> some </em>reaction to it all. The fact that he wasn’t—that he felt, actually, pretty good as he watched the smoke ripple off the thing that wasn’t Maria Ross—probably meant that there was something wrong with him. </p><p> </p><p>Well. He’d known that for a while now. He was the Flame Alchemist, after all. What was it that woman had told him in Ishval? <em> Something like you shouldn’t exist</em>. </p><p> </p><p>Still. He had to admit it had been nice, making something <em> really </em> burn. Even if it was just for a smokescreen; even if he was exactly where he’d been twenty-four hours ago, without answers or leads or anything like a path to justice. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe he <em> was </em> feeling something, after all. Maybe it was just relief. </p><p> </p><p>The relief, if that was what it was, dissipated damn quickly when he heard Fullmetal’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>“What the <em> hell </em> is this?” </p><p> </p><p>Roy turned. Ed was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, half-invisible in the smoke still rising off the pavement between them. </p><p> </p><p>“What the fuck did you do?” His voice was shaking. Roy watched him step towards the corpse, gag, and freeze, pressing one hand to his mouth. Through the smoke, Roy could see that two of his metal fingers were warped out of shape. </p><p> </p><p>He was a day early. Roy wanted to laugh. Leave it to Fullmetal to jump the gun in the worst way possible. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, distantly surprised at the level tone of his own voice. </p><p> </p><p>Before he could blink, Fullmetal was on him, grabbing at his collar with the broken hand. Roy could feel a bent piece of steel jabbing into his throat. “You <em> killed </em> her,” he choked. “You—what the hell did you <em> do </em> to her?” </p><p> </p><p>“I carried out orders.” Roy heard his own voice from a distance, as if he were watching and listening from high above in the smoke that hung over the alley. He wrapped his hand around Fullmetal’s wrist and broke his grip, pushing the kid back so that he stumbled against the dumpster where Ross had disappeared only minutes earlier. The smoke was beginning to clear. </p><p> </p><p>“Lieutenant Ross escaped custody this evening in the company of a convicted murderer,” Roy said. “Lethal force was authorized.” </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t <em> do </em> anything!” Ed yelled. </p><p> </p><p>“She shot a superior officer.” Roy met Ed’s eyes. “You’d do well to take this as a warning.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like <em> hell</em>,” Ed rasped, and lunged for Roy. </p><p> </p><p>Roy hit him. Getting a solid punch in wasn’t hard; Fullmetal wasn’t really fighting. He was flailing, uncoordinated, driven by frenzy rather than strategy. He left his jaw wide open. He went down like a rock, his right hand catching at the pavement with a loud rattle. </p><p> </p><p>“You have an attitude problem, Fullmetal,” Roy said, addressing the kid’s heaving back. “Talk to me like that again, and you’ll have a much, much bigger problem.” </p><p> </p><p>He should feel bad about this. Fullmetal was just a kid, and Roy should feel bad about this. He couldn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t say anything,” Ed said. He was still on the ground, hunched over on his hands and knees. Roy could see the paths his hands had smeared in the carpet of soot. “You knew, and you didn’t tell me. Why the fuck wouldn’t you say anything?” </p><p> </p><p>“You really don’t know?” Roy crouched down, bringing his gaze level with Ed’s. Something started to ache deep in his gut. “Look at yourself. You’re a child. If you can’t accept what happens on a battlefield, you aren’t ready to be a soldier.” He straightened up. “Get out of here. Go find your brother.” </p><p> </p><p>“No.” Ed’s voice was hoarse. He was starting to roll up onto his feet, stumbling a little.</p><p> </p><p>“That was an order.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t care.” Ed reeled back, clapping skin against metal, and slammed his palm against the wall of the alley. </p><p> </p><p>Roy ducked just in time, careening to his right so that the shower of stone Ed sent his way missed him by an inch. Before he had time to respond, Ed transmuted again, sending a spike out of the ground between them to drive at Roy’s head. It was the same as his punches: sloppy, desperate, childish, but with alchemy behind it, Ed’s rage moved faster. Roy barely had time to dodge. </p><p> </p><p>“Stop it,” he told Ed, hearing the dull note of authority in his own voice. “You’re acting like a child.” </p><p> </p><p>Fullmetal wasn’t listening. The sick feeling in Roy’s stomach was getting worse. He moved out of the way of another attack, stepping backwards as stone showered past him. </p><p> </p><p>This was starting to get out of his control. This wasn’t part of the damn plan. Instinct kicked in: <em> Contain</em>. <em> Control. Stabilize the situation</em>. His gloves were still on. He analyzed the terrain, tracked Fullmetal’s movements, and snapped. </p><p> </p><p>It was a short burst, mild intensity, but it got the job done. Ed stopped in his tracks, pulled up short against the cordon of flame, staring at the blazing strip of ground in horror. </p><p> </p><p>“Done?” Roy asked. “Got it out of your system?” The fire was already dwindling, eating itself alive, leaving a dark ring on the pavement around Ed’s feet. </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s answer was to run at Roy, alchemy apparently forgotten, and throw a punch directly at his face. It missed, glancing off Roy’s shoulder; Ed spun on the spot and finally got in a solid strike, driving his left foot into Roy’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him for a second. Roy took it all as a resounding <em> no</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He snapped again. This time the fire traced a tighter circle, pinning Ed down, probably singing the ends of his hair a little. Roy wasn’t worried. He knew what he was doing. He was handling the situation. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is what you call handling? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That was Hughes’s voice, in his ear, as clear as if he’d been talking just out of view. Roy’s stomach twisted treacherously. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m not going to fight you, Fullmetal.” He sounded more tired than he’d meant to. “Just trust me. You have to accept this.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em>T</em><em>rust </em> you?” Ed’s voice broke on the sheer volume of disbelief he packed into that single syllable. “I’m supposed to trust you, you sick fuck? I’m not accepting <em> shit</em>. You <em> murdered </em>—” </p><p> </p><p>“I did what had to be done.” </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck that.” Ed clapped his hands, slapping them to the pavement; stone splintered through the flames, breaking up the fire. Roy watched the isolated flames gutter and die. “You’re a murderer,” Ed said. </p><p> </p><p>Roy shrugged. “Call it what you want. You took the same oath.” </p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t—” Fullmetal choked on whatever that sentence was going to be. He shook his head.</p><p> </p><p>“You did,” Roy said. It was time to end this. “You knew the risks.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed shook his head harder; he looked like he was going to throw up. “I didn’t know you’d <em> kill </em> someone. Not like that. Not—this isn’t the fucking <em> war </em> , Colonel. She didn’t do <em> anything</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>That’s where he was wrong. War was exactly what this was. “Go home, Fullmetal.” </p><p> </p><p>Something moved behind him. Roy shifted position, flicking his eyes back to scan the area, on guard for a possible attack, but it was nothing—a cat, a breeze, a car backfiring in the distance. In the second that his attention was thrown off balance, Ed lunged again, swinging his metal fist at Roy’s face. </p><p> </p><p>The punch connected; Roy felt each sharp, greasy knuckle with painful precision. Then the weight behind the blow shifted suddenly, dropping away with a sickening <em> crack </em> as Ed’s elbow split open, his automail folding back on itself at a bizarre angle. Roy heard the clink of ball bearings hitting the pavement below. </p><p> </p><p>Ed stumbled back, holding his arm; he wrenched it back into place, but Roy could see the joint was destroyed. </p><p> </p><p>“Get out of here,” he told Ed. He was tired, too fucking tired, and the kid’s arm was broken, and the smell of smoke still tasted thick on the air even now, even though Roy knew it had all dissipated. Ed wasn’t supposed to <em> be </em> here. None of this was supposed to happen. “I won’t tell you again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Good,” Ed said, and launched himself at Roy. </p><p> </p><p>The gravity of the situation started to register as Roy deflected Ed’s attacks. Ed was <em> fast</em>, he was impossible to pin down, and, most problematic, he’d surpassed the level of rage where rational thought breaks down about fifteen minutes ago. The broken arm barely seemed to slow him down; even with that dead weight hanging by a single cable, he could still transmute. But he was breathing hard, and he was bleeding, even though Roy was pulling his punches. So he was reopening old injuries, pushing himself past breaking point, fighting entirely without a sense of self-preservation. Roy’s flame barriers weren’t working: Ed pushed through them, ignoring the fire as it bit at his hair and clothes. </p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t part of the plan. Ed was not a part of the damn plan. Roy’s stomach hurt and his head ached and he could hear Hughes just out of sight, his voice heavy with disappointment: <em> what’s wrong with you, Roy? You should have told him the truth. </em> </p><p> </p><p><em> He’s a child, Maes. What was I supposed to do? </em> </p><p> </p><p>A chunk of flagstone in the shape of a fist tore into Roy’s temple. Hughes was laughing. <em> You really are an idiot, Roy. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Unhelpful bastard. </p><p> </p><p><em> Let him tire himself out. Keep him at arm’s length till the MPs show up, till he runs out of wind or gives up; make sure he doesn’t do too much damage to himself trying to kill you. </em>That was the plan now, the best Roy could come up with while dodging columns of stone and listening to Hughes’s reproachful laughter. </p><p> </p><p>Something moved in the shadows at the edge of their little battlefield; Roy caught the movement out of the corner of his eye as he dodged Ed’s blows. Someone was watching: watching, and not intervening. </p><p> </p><p>The shadow vanished. Ed screamed. Roy felt pain erupt across his abdomen as a concrete hand shattered his ribs. He snapped his fingers, maybe a little harder than he’d intended. Flame shot across the night, blocking his vision in white heat. </p><p> </p><p><em> Careful</em>, Hughes’s voice said in his ear. <em> He’s not going to give up. </em> He chuckled, the sound mingling with Ed’s coughs from the other side of the wall of smoke.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did you really think this would end any other way? </em>
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</p><p>“We’ve got trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>Envy was nothing but a shadow across the door, harsh angles against a harsh rectangle of light. </p><p> </p><p><em> So what else is new,</em> she wanted to ask. They always had trouble. Envy rarely came to her with any other kind of news lately. </p><p> </p><p>“Be a little more specific.” </p><p> </p><p>“The Fullmetal runt,” they said, sidling into the light, a stupid grin on their face. “I told you he’s back in town? Apparently he’s fighting Colonel Mustang out in the warehouse district.” They shook their head, whistling. “Looks like it’s gonna get bloody.” </p><p> </p><p>Idiots. “Stop it, then.” </p><p> </p><p>Envy snorted. “Why me? I dealt with him last time.” </p><p> </p><p>And last time had barely been a week ago. Lust was beginning to wonder about the merits versus costs of preserving such stupid children as sacrifices. “Because I said so, Envy.” </p><p> </p><p>“Do it yourself.” They were crouching by the cage now, peering at the ugly thing inside. “They probably won’t <em> actually </em> kill each other.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re comfortable with that risk?” </p><p> </p><p>Envy grinned up at her. “You’re so uptight. Besides,” they added, “it would be funny.” </p><p> </p><p>“Funny,” Lust echoed. “I’ll remind Father you said that. We’ll see if he shares your sense of humor.” </p><p> </p><p>That cleared the smile off Envy’s face. “I dealt with Hughes. You owe me one.” </p><p> </p><p>“That,” she said coolly, “was a joint effort. Stop whining; you sound like Gluttony.” </p><p> </p><p>“Send <em> him</em>, then,” Envy said. “Yo, Gluttony, you’re hungry, right?” </p><p> </p><p>Gluttony was a mouth in the darkness, a giggle that wafted the odor of blood and acid towards Lust. “Time to eat?” </p><p> </p><p>Envy beamed. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be stupid,” she told them. <em> If you want something done right, do it yourself. </em>Wasn’t that what it always came down to, with Greed in the wind and Sloth in the tunnel and Pride too busy with Father to dirty his little hands on the ground with the rest of them? She and Wrath were the only two pulling their weight. </p><p> </p><p>She sighed, shaking her hair back over her shoulders, and headed towards the open doorway, the column of light that led toward the surface. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t wait up.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Not me following absolutely no schedule with these updates!</p><p>I'm all about Envy and Lust's shitty-middle-sibling vs. put-upon-eldest-daughter dynamic. It means a lot to me. Also, I promise we're going to meet up with Al again soon. Very soon. </p><p>Thank you all for reading! This is officially the longest fic I've ever written and it's so fun seeing people subscribe and comment. You may notice that the chapter count has gone up; we're looking at a full seven chapters plus an epilogue, because I love to wrap up a loose end.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. hospital, again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Al was seven years old, he hurt his knee trying to climb onto the roof. Exactly why he’d wanted to climb up there, he didn’t know—even at the time, trying to explain in the immediate aftermath, as Ed pressed his hands over the welling blood and asked <em> why’d ya do something stupid like that</em>, Al hadn’t had an answer. <em> It was high up</em>, he remembered saying, while Ed cursed and huffed and squeezed Al’s knee as hard as he could, his palms sticky with blood. <em> I wanted to try. </em> </p><p> </p><p>The sequence of events was simple. He’d been in the tree, balancing his slight weight on the heavy branch that held the swing. It was the best branch on the tree, a broad bench in mid-air, a ship and a throne and a castle all built into one. He’d just learned to reach the good branch that year, and he was proud of it. Even Ed couldn’t climb that high. </p><p> </p><p>The idea had come to him up there, straddling the branch and staring out over the hills. He’d tried to use it as a bridge to the roof, inching along its length with his eyes fixed on the distant tiles. The logic was simple: on the roof, he’d have a clear view. Plus, bragging rights. Ed had never climbed on the roof before. </p><p> </p><p>The problem came in calculating the jump between the tree and the roof. He’d come up short by a few inches, but a few inches was enough to make the difference between glory and a rough landing that stung his face and palms and split his knee open, spilling blood onto the matted grass underneath him. Ed heard the noise and came sprinting out of the house, panic and annoyance mixed on his face. That was the way Ed usually looked, since Mom died. </p><p> </p><p>At first, Al didn’t feel anything but the shuddering memory of impact, shaking his heart in his chest over and over. He watched Ed’s hands covering the blood, trying to seal it in. </p><p> </p><p>“You coulda broken your whole leg,” Ed told him. “Idiot. You’re real lucky it didn’t snap in half.” </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Al said, and that was when the pain started to register, filling up his whole leg and catching in his throat, sick and violent and terrifying. He started to cry. </p><p> </p><p>“Aw, man, don’t do that,” Ed said. “It’s not even that bad, see, it’s not so bad, it’s gonna be okay.” </p><p> </p><p>He was right about that. Once Granny came over and stitched up the lopsided gash, it <em> wasn’t </em> so bad. Al’s knee swelled to the size of an orange, stiffening the joint so all he could do for a week was hobble around the house, marveling at the dramatic blotches of blue and black and green bruising that turned slowly yellow as the days slipped by. Then, inevitably, the pain receded, the swelling went down, and Al’s knee returned to its normal state, with only a little puckered scar to show for the whole incident. </p><p> </p><p>He remembered the shape of that scar perfectly. Sitting in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse at the edge of Central City, he traced its outline in the dust on the cracked stone floor. </p><p> </p><p>His memories were real. He’d confirmed it at the records office, after a few days hiding out in Central’s disused buildings, trying to figure out how to get through the heightened security at Command. Scheska had been the perfect in: someone nice, with a key to the archives and a convenient debt to Al for the job that had helped her save her mother’s life. Al didn’t like the feeling of taking advantage of her friendship, so he was careful not to do anything that might cause a problem. Just in and out, as quickly as possible. He put the file back in its drawer when he was finished. </p><p> </p><p>The report from Ed’s certification was at the bottom of the file. Al read carefully, trying to detach himself from the words on the page. It was just a report. He was just here to get the facts. </p><p> </p><p>The report was clear and simple. Ed had transmuted a spear at his certification exam. He’d threatened the Fuhrer’s life, and in return they’d given him the silver watch and a yearly research fund. The annual reports from the following four years detailed progress in Ed’s research into topics related to medical applications of alchemy. </p><p> </p><p>There was nothing about artificial memories, nothing about creating alternate forms of life. Whatever Al was, he wasn’t an experiment in the military’s research division. He wasn’t the source of Ed’s state certification, and unless Ed was a <em> lot </em> better at keeping secrets than Al thought he was, he’d never done any research on that subject. </p><p> </p><p>Leaving the records office, he hadn’t felt the kind of relief he expected going in. No matter what the file said, he’d sort of anticipated some sort of peace after reading it: either he <em> was </em> a fake, or he wasn’t, and either way he’d know for sure after reading the report, right? Only that wasn’t how it felt. </p><p> </p><p>It had felt real. <em> That </em> was the problem. Barry was a psychopath, a murderer Al had never heard of, much less met before: he was a stranger trying to kill him, and Al had still believed him. He believed Barry because what he’d said stuck against something already there, some doubt or knowledge buried so deep in Al’s consciousness he hadn’t even realized it was there until it was too late. The doubt that followed him after that night, deepening into something closer to certainty as he got nearer to Central, had felt every bit as real as this new information. </p><p> </p><p>He’d never be sure. That’s the fundamental problem with knowledge—it’s never complete. It always exists within a container of faith. Al had thought he was comfortable with that. He thought he’d grown up enough to accept it. It was frustrating, realizing just how untrue that was. </p><p> </p><p>So, he thought, back at the empty warehouse with the silence of his thoughts and the noise of the city muffled beyond concrete walls, he had a choice. Not between faith and disbelief; it had never really been like that. It was faith versus faith. He could believe in himself, the evidence of his senses, the information accessible to him right now in this form. He could live like that; do his own thing. It wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad existence. Barry seemed to like it just fine. And he didn’t have to be <em> like </em> Barry. He could do a lot of good, in a body like this, if he just accepted the premise that there was nothing else waiting for him on the other side of some magical transmutation. </p><p> </p><p>The other choice was harder, and that was believing Ed. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t feel the same. That was the worst thing, the thing he’d never told Ed, the secret he’d kept buried deep for four years and tried to deny to himself. In this body, with half of his senses blocked out and his mind cut off from the world around him, it felt like something was missing between him and Ed. </p><p> </p><p>He’d felt it for the first time three days after the transmutation failed. It was night, the third night, the third long stretch of darkness since Al had woken up in a body that couldn’t sleep. He’d been in the upstairs hallway—his body couldn’t make it through the doorway into the little bedroom he and Ed used to share when they slept over—watching the moonlight make its steady way across the floorboards. Thinking about Mom. </p><p> </p><p>Winry came to check on him. Al thought she must have slept barely more than him that first week, shuttling back and forth between him and Ed. She must have rested some time, but Al couldn’t remember her ever going to bed. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, sluggish with exhaustion, before she appeared in the shadows at the end of the hall. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you thinking about?” she’d asked. </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t know how to answer. His body couldn’t shrug. “I don’t know.” </p><p> </p><p>She nudged his leg with her toe. Al heard the metal joints shift, sensed the displacement, felt nothing. “Go sit with Ed,” she suggested. “He’s sleeping now.” What she didn’t say was, <em> you won’t have to talk about it. </em>Al knew what she meant anyway. </p><p> </p><p>He’d gone downstairs, feeling weightless, feeling the impact of a body ten times the weight of the one he’d lost. It was better when he wasn’t moving. </p><p> </p><p>When he got to the back room, Ed wasn’t asleep at all. He was awake, breathing hard, half in and half out of the bed with his good leg braced against the floorboards, shaking under his weight as he struggled to lift himself on his left arm, trying to stand. There was blood gathering at the base of the clump of bandages covering his leg stump, dribbling down the edge of the bed, pooling on the floor below. Ed was talking to himself, hissing in a whisper clogged with fever and pain, cursing as the tubes trailing out of his left arm got tangled in the blood-crusted sheets. </p><p> </p><p>“Fuck. Fuck it, fuckin’, <em> shit</em>, fucking piece of shit, fuck—”</p><p> </p><p>Al knew he was about to fall about an instant before it happened; when Ed’s leg went out from under him, Al was there to catch him, untangling the net of tubes and wires and pushing Ed’s hand away from the soggy wrapping on his leg, which was bleeding again, harder than Al thought it should be. Ed must have opened up some stitches. Al called for Granny and waited, holding his hand over Ed’s bandage, pressing down against the flow of blood before he could do any more damage. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t feel the blood. The hand wasn’t his, and the blood wasn’t warm or sticky or gross or slick or <em> anything</em>. It was the information of Ed’s soul slathered across the palm of Al’s hand and Al couldn’t access it at all. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s gonna be okay,” he told Ed as they listened to Granny’s hurried steps on the staircase, and he didn’t believe it, not even close. What could be <em> okay </em> about this? </p><p> </p><p>That was the first night he’d lied to Ed, and he’d been lying to him ever since, acting as if everything was fine, even talking about this body as if it was an <em> asset</em>, a blessing in disguise instead of something that stood in between him and something as simple as reassuring his brother when his leg was bleeding so hard Granny had had to put a needle in her own arm that night for an emergency transfusion. </p><p> </p><p>Believing in Ed, in his memories of the life they lost, meant more of <em> that</em>: pretending to be as good a brother as Ed while he sat there feeling nothing, never sharing the pain, never crying while Ed thrashed and sobbed in his arms when Granny cleaned out the wound and wrapped it in fresh bandages. </p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t the same. It never felt quite <em> real</em>. And that’s what Ed had said to him, finally, last week. <em> It’s not real, Al. </em> Hearing it come out of Ed’s mouth, Al realized now, had been a <em> relief</em>. After all this time trying to keep the secret. If it wasn’t real, then he hadn’t failed. </p><p> </p><p>If it wasn’t real, he hadn’t really been a bad brother to Ed. </p><p> </p><p>He scrubbed out the mark he’d made in the dust, the ragged little diamond in the shape of his old scar. It didn’t mean anything, really. None of it did. Outside, he heard the rumble of thunder. </p><p> </p><p>Both realities felt fake. He was never gonna figure it out. So what was left? </p><p> </p><p>“I miss him,” he said. The words echoed in the vast emptiness around him. </p><p> </p><p>That was it. The simple answer. </p><p> </p><p>The whole last week, on the road to Central and waiting around to get into the records office, he’d found himself turning around to look for Ed a hundred times a day. The silence that followed Al around without Ed there griping and joking was unbearable. He’d thought being in this body was the loneliest thing in the world, but being here without Ed at his side was a thousand times worse.</p><p> </p><p>Al stood up, stomping his feet against the floor, listening to the heavy resonance of steel against stone. The noise was grounding, reassuring, broadcasting the weight he didn’t feel as sound waves, strong and distinct against the low grating crackle of thunder in the distance. He looked at the ceiling and yelled, “I miss my brother!” </p><p> </p><p><em> My probably-brother. </em> My can’t-quite-prove-it-but-I-want-it-to-be-true brother. Did it even matter?</p><p> </p><p>No, Al decided. It didn’t. He loved Ed. The rest would figure itself out. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s gonna be okay, Al,” he whispered. Ed was right before. They’d make it true this time, too. </p><p> </p><p>The thunderclaps were getting louder. They weren’t thunder, Al realized, listening closer. The noise was sharper, more electric, reverberating with a familiar energy. It was alchemy. Someone was transmuting, from the sound of it transmuting something <em> big </em>, not so far away, maybe just a few blocks to the south. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who would be using alchemy in the warehouse district at this time of night? Who would be transmuting at that scale? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Crossing over to the cracked window in the south wall of the warehouse, Al scanned the dark sky. Sure enough, blue sparks burst over the rooftops. Then, just for a moment, unmistakable, a puff of flame. </p><p> </p><p>Colonel Mustang. </p><p> </p><p><em> Brother. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Who else would be with the colonel, using alchemy strong enough to rattle the windows blocks away? Even the rhythm of the strikes felt familiar, unmistakably Ed. </p><p> </p><p>And unmistakably frantic. Whatever the colonel and Ed were fighting, it was serious. </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t think. He didn’t have to. He’d made his choice. </p><p> </p><p>He ran in the direction of the thunder. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
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</p><p>Ed couldn’t see. The air was full of smoke: smarting, bitter, nauseating. It made his eyes run and his throat spasm; it billowed between him and the colonel, blocking out the world in a curtain of acrid white. </p><p> </p><p>He reeled backwards, away from the blast. The sound was still echoing. He spat blood onto the concrete, waiting for the air to clear. </p><p> </p><p>“Let’s finish this.” The colonel’s voice came from the other side of the smoke. Ed wanted to break his stupid jaw, shut that smug voice up for good. If his fucking arm hadn’t broken—</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to fight you, Fullmetal,” the colonel said. <em> Too fucking bad</em>. </p><p> </p><p>He could see the colonel’s outline now. He was facing west, down the length of the street to where Ed had been when the flames hit. His back was angled slightly towards Ed. </p><p> </p><p><em> Bingo. </em> </p><p> </p><p>Tapping his palm to the wreckage of his right hand, Ed transmuted the nearest patch of unbroken pavement, sending it soaring towards Mustang’s back, a giant hand outstretched to pin the colonel down, to hold him still so that Ed could get a decent shot at that revolting face. Only—</p><p> </p><p>Something went wrong in midair, shattering the stone as it flew; a miniature avalanche rained onto the street, mixing dust with the clearing smoke. The colonel had heard the noise. He was facing Ed now—facing, but not looking at him. He was squinting into the smoke instead. </p><p> </p><p>Ed saw her in the same instant that an iron-sharp finger pierced the edge of his jacket, glancing off the ridge of his shoulder with a metallic <em> ping </em> as it skewered him to the wall behind him. Dark hair, too much of it; pale face; black dress. She was standing at the edge of the street, haloed in smoke, her other hand outstretched to pin the colonel by his collar. <em> The woman from the laboratory</em>.</p><p> </p><p>“Play nice, boys.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed shuddered, pulling away from the spike that had him stuck. He’d heard that voice in his dreams for days: low, musical, deadly. She flicked her eyes in his direction as he struggled, her smile widening slightly. </p><p> </p><p>“No, no,” she said, a laugh behind the words. “You’re done. This is over.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who are you?” the colonel demanded, his voice echoing against the empty buildings. </p><p> </p><p>She turned to look at him and tipped her head to the side, thoughtful. “Someone who cares about you.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed ignored them both. He threw his weight downwards, trying to break free; no luck. He jerked right, then left, squirming like a stuck butterfly, but her grip was steady, unbreaking. <em> Carbon again? </em> Ed didn’t know. Ed didn’t care. The list of people on this street he wanted to beat senseless had just doubled. </p><p> </p><p>“<em>You.</em>” A second claw stabbed through the other side of his jacket; Ed could feel the skin split as it brushed against his neck. She was staring at him again. “You’re a problem, Edward Elric. You’ve got a temper.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up, lady,” Ed growled. “I’ve heard it before.” </p><p> </p><p>She laughed. “I’m sure. But this time—” she drove her fingers in harder, cracking the stone at the back of Ed’s neck— “you need to <em> listen. </em>” </p><p> </p><p>“Go to hell.” </p><p> </p><p>“I can’t.” She smiled at him. “Hell is for humans.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed threw himself sideways again, wrestling against the twin rods on either side of his throat, smearing blood from his neck up onto his cheek. The woman just watched, a placid smirk on her face. Ed could feel stone dust in his collar, working its way down his back as he moved. It itched. He was going to <em> kill </em> her. </p><p> </p><p>“Brother!”</p><p> </p><p>The bottom dropped out of Ed’s stomach. </p><p> </p><p>No <em> way. </em> </p><p> </p><p>It was Al. He was walking out of the shadows a little way down the street, as if he’d been there the whole time. As if nothing had happened. Just—<em> here</em>. Out of nowhere, like Ed had called him into existence just by being here. </p><p> </p><p>The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Alphonse,” she said. “Stay back.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em>No! </em> ” Al’s voice was shaking. “That’s my <em> brother</em>.” Where had he <em> come </em> from? </p><p> </p><p>“Get back, Al,” Ed yelled, but the fucking smoke had gotten into his lungs; he couldn’t get in enough air to make his voice carry. He surged forward; heard his jacket rip; choked hard as he came up short against the collar. </p><p> </p><p>Al took a step forward. </p><p> </p><p>Several things happened at once, so quickly that Ed wasn’t aware of them happening at all until about five seconds afterward. The woman withdrew her claws from the colonel’s coat and sent them soaring towards Al. Panic shot through Ed so intensely it blocked out conscious thought: moving on nothing but raw instinct, he tore loose from his jacket and threw himself towards Al.</p><p> </p><p>He came up short, tumbling to the ground a few yards away from Al’s feet. It wasn’t a graceful landing. He’d collided with something mid-air, bruising his chest just below the shoulder; he clutched at the spot as he rolled onto his hands and knees. He looked at Al; no damage. He was fine. She’d missed him somehow. </p><p> </p><p>Okay. Good. </p><p> </p><p>“Brother!” </p><p> </p><p><em> Ow. </em> There was something weird about the bruise on his chest; it was way too wet. Ed got one foot underneath him, then the other, and felt his breath catch with an odd cracking sound. He coughed. Something splattered on the ground. </p><p> </p><p>“Fullmetal!” That was the colonel. <em> Shut up,</em> Ed wanted to tell him, <em> shut up, shut up</em>, but his mouth wasn’t working. He tried to breathe; again, that weird crackle. Nothing was getting in. His chest <em> really </em> hurt. </p><p> </p><p>A burst of heat erupted behind him; that was the colonel, too. Ed heard the woman screaming, and felt relief welling up in his stomach, a cold pool underneath the burning pain spreading across his chest. If the colonel was busy with her, she couldn’t get to Al. </p><p> </p><p>He was on the ground again. He didn’t remember sitting down. He had to go get Al, had to make sure he was all right. He had to <em> apologize</em>. But his legs wouldn’t work. Something was running down his chest, under his shirt, soaking through the fabric and getting everywhere. </p><p> </p><p>“Brother!” No, he didn’t have to get Al. Al was here, right here next to him, pressing his big, steady hand over Ed’s chest, holding him up. “Hold still, brother, you’re gonna make it worse.”</p><p> </p><p>Make what worse? </p><p> </p><p>He looked down. There was blood welling up between Al’s fingers, leaving sticky tracks along his gauntlet. </p><p> </p><p>Oh. </p><p> </p><p>That’s what the bruise was: she’d gotten him. She’d missed Al, and stabbed just about through him. So <em> that </em> was why his lungs weren’t working. Fuck. He coughed again, spraying blood onto Al’s chestplate. <em> Fuck</em>. That wasn’t good. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” Al was saying. His hand was still on Ed’s chest, the other one underneath him, and even in the middle of this fucking mess, with the colonel setting fire to the street a few yards away, it felt like safety. “It’s not so bad. It’s gonna be okay.” </p><p> </p><p>“Listen,” Ed said. It hurt to talk. He was so <em> tired </em> suddenly, so tired he couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago he was on his feet and fighting. It felt like he’d been tired for years. “Listen to me.” Something was wrong with his eyes; he couldn’t see Al’s face. “<em>Listen</em>, Al, I’m sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Al said. “No. It’s gonna be okay.” </p><p> </p><p>This was important. Ed’s face hurt. “I fucked you up.” His chest crackled with every breath; he scrabbled for purchase at Al’s elbow joint. “I didn’t ask you. It’s my fault.” He was fucking this up, too. He couldn’t think. “I’m sorry, okay, Al?” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Al said. Ed felt himself swaying, the world pitching at an outrageous angle around him. “Okay. It’s okay.” </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t explained it right. He had to tell Al. Had to do it right. Had to fix the damn thing before it was too late. </p><p> </p><p>There was metal under his cheek, pressing up against his chest and stomach; he blinked, trying to clear the darkness away from his vision. He was on Al’s back. He had to <em> tell </em> him. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” he croaked, and the effort of producing that syllable consumed the last unit of strength he had left. The darkness closed in again, flat and final. </p><p>
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</p><p>Al was running. He didn’t know where they were in Central, didn’t know the way to the hospital from here, but all of that could wait. First, he had to get Ed away from what was happening behind them. The rest would come later. Feet pounding the lightless alley, one arm raised to hold Ed steady on his back, he ran as fast as he could away from the flames. </p><p> </p><p>Ed had stopped talking a few minutes ago. Al wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been trying to say—an apology for something, but <em> Al </em> was the one who needed to apologize. What he knew for sure was that it was a bad sign. It was a very bad sign. But Al could still hear him, his harsh little breaths at the back of Al’s head, so that meant that he was still alive. Until that changed, all Al could do was get him to safety. </p><p> </p><p>Someone was yelling a few blocks to the west; it sounded like orders. The MPs, coming to find out what the trouble was and about to get the rudest surprise imaginable. Al changed course, veering down a cross street towards the commotion. Someone there would know the quickest way to the hospital. Maybe they’d even have a car. They could get Ed there faster, and then everything would be okay. That was how it was going to go, Al decided. No other options. </p><p> </p><p>On his back, Ed shifted, mumbling something so stifled by blood and weakness that Al couldn’t begin to translate the noise into words. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re okay,” he said, picking up his pace a little. “It’s gonna be okay.” He’d keep saying it until it was true. </p><p> </p><p>There was a light up ahead. Al hadn’t noticed it before, and he didn’t know how; it was <em> blinding</em>. As he ran, the light grew bigger and brighter, spreading till it touched the very edges of his vision and then swelling beyond that, swallowing his body whole. </p><p> </p><p>He was standing in front of a gate. </p><p> </p><p>He turned around. Ed was gone. There was nothing on his back. Central had vanished; instead of dark bricks and alley walls, he was looking at nothing. Just white ether, as far as the eye could see. It was as if nothing existed except him and this gate. </p><p> </p><p>He turned back towards it. There was a carving on the gate, two tendrils of stone snaking up to cradle the sun. <em> CORPUS </em> was etched on the left door, <em> SPIRITUS </em> on the right. <em> The tree of life. </em> </p><p> </p><p>He stared at the gate, and felt it staring back at him. For some reason, he sensed that time had passed. As though he’d been here not just a few seconds, but for a very long time, watching the gate, waiting for something to happen. </p><p> </p><p>“Where am I?” he asked. There was nobody else here, but he knew, somehow, that someone would hear the question. “Where is this?” </p><p> </p><p>Someone was laughing. It was his own voice; then it was Ed’s voice; then it was a stranger, and yet the voice hadn’t changed. He couldn’t see who was laughing. </p><p> </p><p><em> Welcome back, Alphonse</em>, the voice said, and Al woke up. </p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t in the alley anymore. Ed was gone. He was sitting on the floor in a brightly lit hallway, listening to a PA system crackle overhead. With a slow-burning awareness, he realized that he knew these floors—the pattern was completely unremarkable, but he’d memorized it overnight a couple weeks ago. Central Hospital. </p><p> </p><p>“Alphonse!” He wasn’t alone. Major Armstrong was sitting on the bench beside him, leaning over to squint into his eyes. “You’re awake.” </p><p> </p><p>Had he been asleep? That was impossible. </p><p> </p><p>“Major?” he said, and it was a relief to hear his own voice. Just his voice, and nobody else’s. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s a pleasure to have you back with us, Alphonse Elric,” the major said. He was standing up now, holding out his hands to Al in a gesture of welcome and jubilation. “Everyone’s been worried about you.” </p><p> </p><p><em> About me? </em> “Where’s Ed?” That was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember reaching the hospital. He couldn’t be sure they’d made it in time. </p><p> </p><p>“Your brother is safe,” Armstrong said. Al noticed that he didn’t say <em> fine</em>. Safe, but not okay.</p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” </p><p> </p><p>“The MPs found you and your brother in the street,” Armstrong told him. “They brought you here. Before he went into surgery, Edward told us that you would probably come around in time.” He glanced up and down the length of the hall before going on, in a lowered voice: “He told me to check the seal inside your armor.” </p><p> </p><p>“My seal?” </p><p> </p><p>“His blood touched it.” Armstrong’s eyes narrowed. “Edward seemed to think that was important.” </p><p> </p><p><em> His blood. </em>The information of the soul. The same blood he’d used to bind Al’s soul in the first place, four years ago. And Al realized that he knew where he’d been—he knew exactly where, even if he didn’t have a name for it, because he’d been there before, four years ago. For a brief second, it felt as if he were being sucked back, watching his body disintegrate in front of him, the looming black doors casting a shadow across the tiled floor. </p><p> </p><p>But that was just a memory; he stayed where he was, with the major in front of him. </p><p> </p><p>He shook his head, trying to focus. “Ed went into surgery?” </p><p> </p><p>“An hour ago,” Armstrong said. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands. But that wound—” he shook his head. “It collapsed his lung, and he’s lost a good deal of blood.” He looked at Al gravely. “Your brother is very lucky to have you. Without you, he might not have made it here in time.” </p><p> </p><p><em> Lucky</em>. It was the last word, until tonight, that Al would have used to describe the two of them, but maybe it fit. Maybe <em> lucky </em> was exactly what they were. </p><p> </p><p>“What happened?” It had all been so fast: the thunder, the colonel and the mystery woman, and Ed throwing himself in her path. Al had no idea what had led up to that moment, or what had happened on the other side. “Is the colonel all right?” </p><p> </p><p>An odd expression crossed Armstrong’s face. “Colonel Mustang is back at the command center. According to his report, your brother was injured while assisting him in fighting an unidentified attacker.” There was definitely something weird about his tone—like he was <em> angry </em> at the colonel. Al didn’t think anyone hated Mustang the way Ed did, but Armstrong’s manner right now was exactly the same as Ed’s whenever he talked about the colonel. Maybe it was catching. </p><p> </p><p>They sat in silence for a while, listening to the hospital move and buzz around them. A nurse approached, carrying a clipboard. “Major?” </p><p> </p><p>Armstrong stood. “Yes, ma’am?” </p><p> </p><p>“Edward Elric is out of surgery,” she said. Al jumped to his feet; she stared up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re his brother?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Al said. “He’s okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Follow me.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed, she explained, was still in the surgical ward, coming out of anesthesia while they set up a room for him upstairs. “As soon as he’s stabilized,” the nurse told Al as they walked, “we’ll send you up there.” </p><p> </p><p>Al didn’t care where they were. He just wanted to see Ed. </p><p> </p><p>When he did, it was a shock. Ed looked <em> small</em>. He was propped on his side in the bed, dwarfed by the blankets, his broken automail wrapped in bandages and strapped to his stomach with a sling. His face and neck were mottled with bruises and black flecks of suture, and there was a tube poking out of his side, just below his armpit, easily twice as thick as the IV tubing spooling out of his arm. </p><p> </p><p>He looked the way he had after they tried to bring Mom back. </p><p> </p><p>Al crossed to the bed and sank down beside him, kneeling at eye level with Ed. He expected him to be asleep, still solidly under the stupor of drugs that got him through the surgery, but to his surprise, Ed’s eyelids fluttered, and he was squinting back at Al, a dull smile twitching across his face. </p><p> </p><p>“Al,” he said. “You found me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I did,” Al agreed. “You saved my life.” </p><p> </p><p>“Pfff,” Ed snorted, shaking his head minutely. His eyes wouldn’t stay open; wouldn’t focus. “I had a dream, Al,” he said, dragging his good hand up to scratch at the stitches on his neck. </p><p> </p><p>Al batted his hand away gently. “Yeah?” </p><p> </p><p>“Mm-hmm.” Ed nodded. “I thought you—I dreamed she got you. She broke it, the, the, the—” He waved his hand. “The seal.” </p><p> </p><p>“She didn’t, Ed. You saved me.” </p><p> </p><p>“I did?” He sounded genuinely surprised. “I don’t remember.” </p><p> </p><p>“You did,” Al assured him. “You have to rest now.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed nodded. “It wasn’t real.” His hand was resting on Al’s now, a light but sure weight. “<em>Y</em><em>ou’re </em> real. Right? You’re real, Al.” </p><p> </p><p>Al tightened his grip. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Ed whispered, and closed his eyes again. </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And we're back with Al. How I've missed him!</p><p>There are a bunch of loose ends here!! I'll tie some of them up in the epilogue. As ever, I am reblogging memes @happymeatgoodtaste on tumblr and appreciating all of your emotions as you throw them back at me in the comments.  You, reader, are the best.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. epilogue: desert</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was early morning, just before the sun crossed the hills, when they got the call. Granny was the one who picked up, tucking the phone under her chin at first as she answered, then sitting up straight and taking the receiver back in her hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Ed?”</p><p> </p><p>Winry couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation. She watched Granny’s face anxiously, twisting the rag she’d been holding when the phone rang tightly in her hands. She knew what it looked like when Granny got bad news. </p><p> </p><p>“Where are you?” Granny asked. She nodded in silence for a few minutes, listening, and said, “Is Al with you?”</p><p> </p><p>Silence. A nod. “He’s safe?”  Another nod. Something deep inside Winry’s stomach unknotted itself. </p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Granny said, sighing, “she’s going to kill you, you know.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh no. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Granny nodded a few more times, grunting into the phone, then held the receiver out to Winry with an unreadable grin. “He wants to talk to you.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s voice sounded fuzzy on the other end of the line. “Hey, Winry.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, she hadn’t meant to cry. She swiped hard at her cheeks, annoyed with herself. “Hey yourself.” Days. It had been <em> days </em>since she’d last heard from them, and the last thing she knew was bad news. She couldn’t keep doing this. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” Ed crackled, “I, uh.” A deep sigh swept through the phone. “I need you to come up to Central. I broke my arm again.” </p><p> </p><p>“What happened this time?” </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing,” Ed said. Two stubborn syllables of static. </p><p> </p><p>“Uh-uh. That’s not good enough.” She twisted the phone cord around her palm, pulling tight to feel the pinch. “You didn’t call. I didn’t know—you have to talk to me, Ed.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed again, a windstorm in her ear. Someone should tell Ed how rude that was on the phone. “It’s not a big deal.”</p><p> </p><p>“So tell me, then.” </p><p> </p><p>A pause. “Okay, so it’s a big deal. I’m—look, I’m sorry about the arm, okay? Last time. Promise.”</p><p> </p><p>She almost laughed. “No, it’s not.” </p><p> </p><p>Another sigh. “No.” She waited. “I’m sorry for not calling,” Ed said. “Can you just come?” </p><p> </p><p>“Of course I’ll come.” She paused. “What happened with Al?” </p><p> </p><p>The silence on the other end of the line stretched on longer this time. She could hear voices in the background, barely distinct from the static. </p><p> </p><p>“Ed?” </p><p> </p><p>“It’s complicated,” he said finally. “He’s fine. We’re fine.” She heard him take a deep breath. “I’ll explain it when you get here, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” It was her turn to sigh. “How bad’s the damage? I need to know what equipment to bring.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s hesitation spoke volumes. “It’s…been better.” </p><p> </p><p>“You destroyed it, didn’t you.” </p><p> </p><p>“I still have most of my fingers.” </p><p> </p><p>“Most?” </p><p> </p><p>The evening train to Central was nearly empty. Advantages of being the end of the line. Winry took a seat by the window, her suitcase and her tools beside her, watching the fields roll past under a smoky sunset. The sun disappeared about when they hit the blocky towers of East City. She watched her reflection in the window as the train sat for a few minutes in the station, golden lamps flicking on through the steam and soot. Then they pulled out again, past the dark bulk of the barracks and the open parade grounds, sweeping northwest through the darkening plains. </p><p> </p><p>They rolled into Central just past midnight. Winry stretched gratefully, pausing for a moment in the bright warmth of the station to rub away the stiffness from the hard bench seat and gather her bearings. She looked around; Ed had said he’d send someone to meet her at the station. Even at this hour, Central Station was more crowded than the Resembool depot had been several hours ago, but Ed had said she’d know the guy when she saw him. </p><p> </p><p>He was right. </p><p> </p><p>“Miss Rockbell!”</p><p> </p><p>Major Armstrong insisted on carrying both her suitcase and her tool case, and he had a car waiting, ready to take them to the hospital. On the way over, he pointed out landmarks and points of historical interest. Winry didn’t pay much attention, but she sort of appreciated what he was doing. It was nice, for a few minutes, to feel like there wasn’t that much to worry about. He told her that they’d booked a hotel room for her, on Ed’s dime, just down the street from the hospital. </p><p> </p><p>“Whenever you’re done,” he said, “I’ll be honored to escort you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Thank you,” she told him. They were almost at the hospital. </p><p> </p><p>Ed’s room was on the top floor of the hospital; through the windows, as she followed Major Armstrong down the hall, all she could see was starlight over the roofs of the city. Even before they reached the room, she could see that the light was on. She could hear voices. </p><p> </p><p>“...so if the gate is <em> truth</em>, then that means—”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait, Al, have you tried—”</p><p> </p><p>They stopped when she came in. They were sitting together in the yellow glow from the lamp above Ed’s bed, Al’s body pitched forward in that unmistakable pose of excitement Winry knew so well. Ed was propped up against a mountain of pillows, forehead pinched in concentration, like she’d caught them in the middle of trying to solve a math problem or unspool a particularly tricky riddle. </p><p> </p><p>“Winry!” Al jumped up to greet her. She took his hand in hers, squeezing tight; he squeezed back without hesitation. Whatever cloud had been hanging over him the last time they’d talked, it had blown away. He pulled back to face her, squaring his giant shoulders. “I’m sorry I ran away, Winry. I’m sorry to have scared you.” </p><p> </p><p>Did Ed tell him to apologize? “It’s okay,” she said, touching his arm, and she saw relief settle over him. </p><p> </p><p>She turned finally to get a good look at Ed. She’d been preparing herself, the whole way here, for something bad. And it was <em>bad</em>. Ed’s face was a mask of bruises and cuts; old blood pooled green and black underneath his eyes, an ugly scrape trailing across his hairline. There were tubes poking out from under the sheets, one snaking out of his ribs, and his right arm was wrapped in bandages so that she couldn’t even see the extent of the damage. She could tell from the way his chest was moving—quick, light, slightly uneven pulses—that it hurt to breathe. </p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t meet her eyes. There were odd, ruddy welts splashed across his cheeks and nose; he looked almost sunburned. “Hey, Winry,” he said, studying his feet underneath the blanket. “Thanks for coming.” </p><p> </p><p>“Dummy,” she said. “You don’t have to thank me.” She crossed over to the bed, sinking down in the chair at Ed’s right side. “Let me see your arm.” </p><p> </p><p>It took a minute to unwind the bandages; as they came off, Winry started to understand why they’d bothered to bandage an automail limb in the first place. The lengths of gauze and linen were holding Ed’s arm together, and as she unwrapped them, fragments started falling into the bedclothes. She picked them up as she went, checking each piece to see if it was salvageable, stacking them in a little pile on the bedside table that grew steadily in front of Ed’s sheepish face. </p><p> </p><p>“I told you it was bad,” he said defensively, as she unwrapped the last layer of bandages and felt the weight of his forearm drop precipitously into her hand. It was attached by the barest length of stripped wires, hanging off the elbow like a dangerously loose tooth. </p><p> </p><p>She narrowed her eyes. “I <em> just </em> rebuilt this.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Ed sighed, “sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Winry’s stomach hurt. “Don’t apologize if you’re just gonna do it again.” </p><p> </p><p>“What am I <em> supposed </em> to say?” </p><p> </p><p>“Just—” She didn’t know. “Turn around. I need to take the whole thing off.” </p><p> </p><p>It took a minute for Ed to sit up, gritting his teeth and using Al’s arm for leverage to pull himself forward, angling his back towards her. Winry caught sight of the odd, crinkled hair at the end of his braid. </p><p> </p><p>“Is your hair <em> burnt</em>?” </p><p> </p><p>“Huh?” Ed paused, breathing hard, caught in the middle of wrestling his way out of the loose hospital top. “Oh.” He twisted to squint at it. “Yeah. I guess so.” </p><p> </p><p>“<em>Ed</em>.” </p><p> </p><p>“Forget about it,” he said. Like it was that easy. </p><p> </p><p>She got her tool box from Major Armstrong, who had stationed himself in the doorway, and set to work disconnecting the arm from its base. She worked quietly, quickly, watching as Ed’s left arm, bracing him upright against the bed, started to shake. Al hovered across from her, a bulk of anxious care. </p><p> </p><p>“It’ll take me a while,” she warned him as she unscrewed the last bolt. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s fine,” Ed grunted. “They’re not gonna let me out of here, like, ever.” </p><p> </p><p>“The doctor said a week,” Al said softly. </p><p> </p><p>Ed fell back onto the pillows as Winry gathered up the pieces of his arm, laying them out along the length of the bed so she could study the damage better. She’d need to rebuild the whole elbow, but the shoulder was okay, mostly, and the wrist had held up surprisingly well. She felt a little spark of pride. If she could get the right parts to reassemble that central joint, she could probably have it finished in a couple of days. </p><p> </p><p>But—she glanced over at Ed, who was tipped back against the pillows, eyes closed, face screwed up with pain. If Al was right, she had a whole week. She could wait till morning to start working. </p><p> </p><p>She flopped back against the hard vinyl back of the chair. “Okay,” she said, spreading her hands. “I’m here.” Ed opened one eye to squint over at her. “You said you’d explain when I got here. And I’m here now. So tell me what’s been going on.” </p><p> </p><p><em> You owe me that</em>, she wanted to say, but didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>“Winry…” Ed pressed his hand over his face, sighing heavily. “Isn’t it, like, late or something?” </p><p> </p><p>She looked over to the door. “Major Armstrong?” He perked up out of his somber posture. “Would you give us a few minutes alone together? I’ll head over to the hotel afterwards, if you don’t mind.”</p><p> </p><p>“Of course, Miss Rockbell.” </p><p> </p><p>As soon as the major was gone, she turned back to Ed. “So?” </p><p> </p><p>He was frowning down at his feet again. “I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly, a tired rasp at the back of his voice. “I don’t wanna hurt you, or scare you, but I—” He laughed a little. “I keep on doing that, even when I’m trying not to. And I guess, if I <em> don’t </em> tell you anything—well, I’d be <em> more </em> scared if I didn’t know. So I guess that’s not a fair exchange.” </p><p> </p><p>Winry bit her tongue; she’d been telling him this for <em> years</em>, and he thought he’d just worked it out like some alchemy equation. “Yeah,” was all she said. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll make you a deal,” Ed said, looking up at her finally. “I’ll tell you what happened, and you—just don’t get mad, okay?” </p><p> </p><p>“How’m I supposed to promise that when I don’t know what you’re gonna say?” She shook her head. “Here’s the deal. You talk to me, and I won’t give you any more shit about <em> this</em>.” She gestured to the shattered arm spread out on the bed. </p><p> </p><p>Ed looked down at it, considering. “Okay,” he agreed finally, meeting her eyes with a stubborn glare. </p><p> </p><p>He told the story slowly, picking his words with the caution of someone defusing a bomb. The trouble had started in Dublith, with some kind of gang who thought Al was the key to immortality. They were the ones who’d broken his arm—“most of the way,” Ed said. Then Ed had followed Al to Central, and things got worse. Al jumped in to tell his part: how some creep they’d met had put the idea in his head that he’d never been real; how he’d stewed on that thought until he couldn’t let it go; how he’d heard Ed say what he thought was confirmation. </p><p> </p><p>“I was <em> out </em> of it,” Ed grumbled. She could tell they’d had this conversation already, maybe more than once. </p><p> </p><p>“I know,” Al said. It sounded like an apology. “Anyway,” he added, “that’s why I ran away, back in Resembool. I wanted to check on Ed’s documents—I didn’t know how to ask any of you about it. I thought I could take care of it on my own.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Al.” She got it, actually. She didn’t know how she’d find the words to say something like that. And Al—well, Ed wasn’t the only stubborn one. They both tried to take on too much alone. Looking at the pieces of automail laid out in front of her, she guessed she could understand that, too. </p><p> </p><p>“But he gets it now,” Ed assured her. “We talked. It’s all good.” She could feel him closing the door on that conversation, bolting it shut and moving away. He didn’t want to talk about Al anymore. But, she sensed, there was another piece of this story, something he hadn’t gotten to yet. She waited. </p><p> </p><p>It was Al who said it. “Lieutenant Colonel Hughes died. He was our friend. You’d have really liked him, Winry.” </p><p> </p><p>“Brigadier General,” Ed mumbled. “He got a promotion.” </p><p> </p><p>She’d heard about him. Ed had called him an <em> annoying asshat</em>, which she figured meant he liked him okay. “I’m so sorry.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed nodded. “He had a kid. She’s three.” There was something bitter in his voice: guilt, not grief. Of course he thought this was his fault, too. She wondered if he’d ever stop piling other people’s pain on his own shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That’s really hard.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed took a breath and held it, tipping his head back as he exhaled slowly, discomfort cramping on his forehead. “Yeah,” he said finally. “It fucking sucks.” She could tell what he was doing, telegraphing physical pain so he wouldn’t have to deal with the other kind. She didn’t say anything. </p><p> </p><p>“The person who was arrested,” Al said, “was our friend too. She—” He broke off. </p><p> </p><p>“I got in a fight about it, okay?” Ed said, picking up the thread from Al, who seemed lost for words. “With the colonel. This person, she was a <em> good </em> person. What happened to her wasn’t right.” </p><p> </p><p><em> What happened? </em> “Okay,” she said slowly. “The colonel—isn’t he your boss?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed scowled. “Technically. Kind of. Not really. Anyway,” he huffed, “not for long.” </p><p> </p><p>“What do you mean?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed glanced up at Al, and Winry saw something pass between them: that silent communication she’d learned years ago to recognize and never to translate. Al nodded. Ed turned back to her, his jaw squared. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m leaving the military.” </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t know what she’d expected. Not that. Not after <em> everything</em>. “Leaving—for good?” </p><p> </p><p>Ed nodded. “Me and Al talked about it. I should’ve done it a long time ago. Before—” He didn’t finish the sentence. </p><p> </p><p>“A lot of people have gotten hurt,” Al said softly. “Ed and I have some ideas of how we’ll keep doing our research.” </p><p> </p><p>“All the military’s research is garbage anyway,” Ed agreed. “Even if we could, Al and I wouldn’t want to get our bodies back that way. So we’ll go ahead on our own. Besides,” he added, and Winry noticed a note of pride creeping into his voice, “I broke my arm punching the colonel in the face. They’re probably gonna kick me out anyway.” </p><p> </p><p>She ignored the triumph in his voice. He was <em> impossible</em>. “Where are you gonna go?” </p><p> </p><p>She saw them conduct another wordless conference. “To the east, we think,” Al said. “We don’t really know much about the alchemy out there, but we’ve heard it’s different. Maybe we’ll find some answers there.” </p><p> </p><p>“It’ll be something new, anyway,” Ed said. “Here—” He gestured vaguely outward. “It’s nothing but dead ends.” </p><p> </p><p>She nodded, taking it all in. “Okay.” She picked up a piece from the pile of automail parts on the table, turning it over in her hand. “So you’ll be on the road again.” </p><p> </p><p>“Once they let me out of here.” Ed nodded. He looked exhausted suddenly, as if talking had used up the last of his strength. She could see the sheen of sweat over his forehead, unnaturally bright in the glow of the lamp. </p><p> </p><p>“If you’re gonna be doing all this traveling, you need to rest,” she said, and Ed didn’t argue. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks for doing my arm,” he mumbled as she gathered up the parts. His eyes were already closed. </p><p> </p><p>“Go to sleep, dummy,” she told him, tucking her hair behind her ear to duck down and drop a kiss on the top of his head. </p><p> </p><p>She left him with Al, and met Major Armstrong in the hallway. He hadn’t gone far. “Is everything all right?” he asked, capturing her bags again before she could protest. Winry nodded, her mind already occupied by schematics and price estimates; she was pretty sure she could source all the right parts here in Central. If she had to, she’d make a day trip down to Rush Valley. She had enough time. </p><p> </p><p>It was a new start. The knot in her chest, the little tangle of fear that had lodged there the day Ed announced that he was signing up, had just started to unlock. </p><p>
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</p><p>“Colonel?” </p><p> </p><p>Riza waited, staring at the plain brass number plate on the colonel’s apartment door as she ticked off the seconds in her mind. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty. She knocked again. She’d been standing here for nearly five minutes. </p><p> </p><p>If he didn’t answer soon, she was going to have to escalate the situation. </p><p> </p><p>She’d sent the colonel home two days ago, the night of his fight with Edward. At the time, Riza didn’t have the details of the situation—all she knew was that, after the operation with Lieutenant Ross had been successfully completed, Edward had encountered Colonel Mustang and engaged him in combat. <em> He lost his shit</em>, actually, was what the colonel had said when he arrived back at the office, but Riza sensed at the time that it was a subjective and ultimately unproductive assessment. She’d put him in a cab headed for his apartment building and told him not to come back until he’d slept. That was forty hours ago, and nobody had heard from him since. </p><p> </p><p>Thirty, forty-five, sixty. Five minutes had passed, and no response from the colonel. Riza knocked again. </p><p> </p><p>She sighed and took two steps back, evaluating. If she shot the lock off, she’d have to pay for the property damage. The colonel’s building was nicer than hers. She scanned the hallway, looking at the neat molding along the ceiling. The lock was expensive. She’d have to find a phone, and call the superintendent. Someone surely had a key to this apartment. </p><p> </p><p>She was turning to go when the door opened. </p><p> </p><p>“Lieutenant?” </p><p> </p><p>The only part of the colonel’s face that she could see looked haggard. There was blood on the side of his neck, caked in dry black flecks on his ear. </p><p> </p><p>“Colonel.” She stood to attention. “You hadn’t been heard from in some time. I came to check on your status.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh.” He blinked, opening the door further. She could see the bruise on his left cheek now; a perfect imprint of Edward’s fist. “What day is it?” </p><p> </p><p>She told him. Surprise registered fleetingly on his face. “I fell asleep.” </p><p> </p><p>“I assumed so, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” he said again, running a hand over his face, frowning when his fingers caught against dried blood. He held the door open, scratching absentmindedly at his ear. “You’d better come in, Lieutenant.” </p><p> </p><p>She stepped inside. The colonel’s apartment was cold, a two-room emptiness with a window facing a closed courtyard. Through the window, she could see a patch of orange sky; the sun was setting. She squinted in the darkness. “Do you own a lamp, sir?” </p><p> </p><p>He did. It was in one of the boxes from East City; he couldn’t remember which one. Riza thought about the stack of cardboard in her own apartment, several blocks to the north, and turned on the weak greenish light over the stove. </p><p> </p><p>The colonel had gone into the bathroom; she could hear him splashing water on his face. He emerged a few minutes later, his shirt collar soaked, with most of the blood scrubbed away from his ear. </p><p> </p><p>“What did the autopsy say?” He wasn’t looking at her. </p><p> </p><p>“Dr. Knox completed the autopsy yesterday morning, sir. He identified the body you burned as that of Second Lieutenant Ross.” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded. “Good.” Silence stood between them for a moment, webbed over with the faint electric hum of the kitchen light. Outside, someone shouted for his friend. </p><p> </p><p>“What about Fullmetal?” the colonel asked, his face expressionless. </p><p> </p><p>“Edward was admitted to the hospital two nights ago,” Riza told him. “He was treated for a collapsed lung and a number of bruises and lacerations. His condition is stable now. I understand that his automail engineer has come in from Resembool to repair his arm.” She kept her gaze steady, watching his face. “He sustained a number of minor first-degree burns on his face.” </p><p> </p><p>The colonel didn’t react. </p><p> </p><p>“I talked to Major Armstrong earlier,” she went on. “He met the Elric brothers at the hospital. He’s been staying with them.” The colonel shrugged off his uniform jacket, folding it neatly on the back of the couch, and started rummaging through boxes for a fresh shirt. “Armstrong told me that Edward is planning to resign his position as a state alchemist.” </p><p> </p><p>The colonel let out a sharp noise of frustration, leaning forward with his forearms resting on the tower of boxes. “Damn it.” He eased one hand along his ribs, wincing a little. </p><p> </p><p>“I think he needs to know.” </p><p> </p><p>“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t answer. She didn’t think the question required an answer. </p><p> </p><p>The colonel abandoned his search for a clean shirt and turned to sink onto the couch, still holding his side. She followed, standing at the arm of the sofa, watching. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking across the room, at something on the far wall, his eyes narrowing as if he’d caught sight of something important. She turned to follow his gaze. There was nothing there but the wall. </p><p> </p><p>“Colonel,” she said, “what happened?” </p><p> </p><p>He didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know,” he said finally. </p><p> </p><p>Riza registered a faint feeling of surprise; she hadn’t heard him say those words very often. It was one of the differences, she’d noticed, between him and Edward, one of the reasons they were always at odds. For Edward, knowing was about <em> knowing</em>, about assembling a wall of information around him and the people he loved, about making his knowledge so impenetrable that he became his own shield. Ignorance was opportunity for Edward, not shame: a chance to add another brick to his fortifications. For the colonel, it was the appearance that mattered most: seeming to know, seeming to be in control at all times, no matter how far his actual grasp fell short. </p><p> </p><p>He hadn’t been in control the other night. Not really. Not enough. Riza knew that. It was why she’d come here. </p><p> </p><p>He was still watching the wall. The evening light had deepened, washing the plaster in softer tones, dull purple replacing the orange glow from outside. Somewhere upstairs, someone was playing music. She waited. </p><p> </p><p>“I was just trying to—contain the situation,” the colonel said finally. “What was I supposed to do? He wasn’t even supposed to be in town.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I thought he’d tire himself out. And then—” He broke off, shrugging. “If he wants to resign, let him. He assaulted his commanding officer.” </p><p> </p><p>“Colonel—”</p><p> </p><p>“I did what I had to do, Lieutenant,” he said. His hand was at his side again. “He wasn’t supposed to be there,” he repeated, dumbly. </p><p> </p><p>“He’s a child,” she said. It didn’t matter most of the time. It mattered now. </p><p> </p><p>The colonel nodded. He knew it too. He tore his gaze away from the wall finally, looking out the window to the shadows creeping along the blank bricks of the courtyard, his head tipped slightly to the side. For a moment, it looked as if he was listening for something—listening <em> to </em> someone. </p><p> </p><p>The moment passed. He looked up at Riza, the old stubborn look back in his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“You said Armstrong was staying with them?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, sir.” </p><p> </p><p>He nodded thoughtfully. She could see the calculations beginning to run in his head. </p><p> </p><p>“How long before he’s able to travel?” </p><p>
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</p><p>Ed was hot. No, fuck that, Ed was suffocating; Ed was being slowly steamed alive in his own skin. He was pretty sure, if the old guy didn’t stop them soon for a rest, he was gonna melt straight off the damn horse. </p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck </em> the desert. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you okay, brother?” Al’s voice floated from behind him<em>.</em> <em>Lucky bastard.</em> Ed didn’t care if it was fucked up; in that moment, he was intensely jealous of Al. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll live,” he croaked. He wasn’t sure if it was true. </p><p> </p><p>“At least Winry gave you that heat resistant coating.” Al always had to be right. </p><p> </p><p>It had been a last-minute upgrade. She’d charged extra. It took her four days, all told, to reassemble his arm, which had meant four days of intense boredom, lying in that awful sweaty hospital bed, twiddling a single thumb and playing cards with Al. He could have kissed her when she showed up on the fourth day, bags under her eyes and his arm gleaming in her hands. </p><p> </p><p>“It took me a long time to find the right kind of actuator for the joint,” she explained. She looked <em> beat. </em> “Sorry about that. We have them back at the shop, but they’re hard to come by here.” </p><p> </p><p>Ed didn’t care. “Whatever. You’re amazing. Let’s get it over with.” </p><p> </p><p>He’d hoped that already having pain meds in his system when the nerves connected would help dull the agony of that moment, but it really didn’t. It was the usual split second of total white-out, followed by brutal, shuddering aftershocks that radiated through his chest and jaw. The stab wound didn’t exactly help. </p><p> </p><p>So he’d been distracted—trying to keep from puking, actually—when Major Armstrong showed up. Suddenly he was just <em> there</em>, all mustache and muscle and absolutely no indoor voice, talking to Al about—his vacation? </p><p> </p><p>“I’m planning to go east,” he was saying. “Colonel Mustang advised that I take some time away from work to clear my head. I’ve heard wonderful things about the climate there.” </p><p> </p><p>“Who the fuck cares what he says,” Ed muttered. If he never heard about Colonel Mustang again in his life, it would be too soon. </p><p> </p><p>Armstrong turned to him, his smile at full throttle. “You and your brother are planning to travel to the east, are you not? I understand that you’re hoping to do research into eastern modes of alchemy.” </p><p> </p><p>“How the fuck do you know that?” Ed asked. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh,” Al said. “We were talking the other day. While you were asleep.” </p><p> </p><p>“You brothers should accompany me,” Armstrong announced. “I’ve procured a guide—a highly skilled gentleman who knows the route well.” </p><p> </p><p>“The route to <em> where</em>?” They hadn’t decided where they were headed yet. Ed wasn’t even out of the hospital yet. How was it that Armstrong already seemed to have a damn itinerary? </p><p> </p><p>“To the ruins of Xerxes.” </p><p> </p><p>Oh<em>.</em> <em>That—</em></p><p> </p><p>“That’s the country that was destroyed years ago,” Al said slowly. “It disappeared overnight, didn’t it, brother?” </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Ed said. “Out in the eastern desert. I read a book about it once.” The pain in his shoulder made it hard to think, but the research was coming back to him. That one book in particular; it had been at the bottom of a pile of books in Dad’s study, ratty and moth-eaten, but it had been <em> interesting</em>. A thriving nation in the middle of a desert; the country that died in a single night. He’d always thought of it as a dead end, a forgotten history next door to a fairy tale. </p><p> </p><p>But fairy tales were just about all they had left now. Bastard or not, Dad must have been interested in Xerxes for a reason. </p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” he said, his brain catching up with him, “why do <em> you </em> want to go there?” </p><p> </p><p>“Like I said,” Armstrong said, beaming. “The climate.” Something was off here. The guy was full of so much <em> shit</em>. Ed just couldn’t figure out why. </p><p> </p><p>Winry spoke up before he could say anything. “In the desert, you said?” She was frowning. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” Ed said. “Halfway between here and Xing, I think.” </p><p> </p><p>“Okay.” She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Well, you’re clearly gonna go, so that means I have to take that arm back off.” </p><p> </p><p>“What?” Ed’s stomach twisted. “You’re trying to kill me here.” </p><p> </p><p>“No, dumbass,” she said. “I’m trying to save your life. If you try to cross a desert with that automail you’re gonna fry.” </p><p> </p><p>She’d been right, of course. Even with the protective coating, it felt like he was carrying two live irons on his hip and shoulder. Between that and the fact that it had been less than two weeks since he got fucking stabbed, Ed was about ready to scream. There were actual tears in his eyes, which was annoying, since there was also sand flying in his face. The <em> grittiness </em> was nearly as bad as the pain. </p><p> </p><p>The old man finally called for a rest. They’d reached some kind of oasis—not the actual ruins, but a station in the middle of the wasteland with a little shade and water, somewhere clearly designed for travelers like them. Ed slipped down from the horse and more or less collapsed onto the ground, rolling himself into the shade, onto sand so cool he almost shivered from the sudden contrast. He stretched out on his back, moving his arm and leg as far from the rest of his body as possible, and closed his eyes gratefully. Every single molecule in his body hurt. </p><p> </p><p>Metal clanked nearby. He could feel Al’s shadow looming over him.</p><p> </p><p>“You need to drink, brother. You’re gonna get dehydrated.” </p><p> </p><p>He sat up reluctantly, letting Al crowd him into a sitting position and push a canteen on him. He took a few gulps: the water wasn’t even cold, but it tasted all right. Al took a canteen of his own and poured some water onto a rag, draping the wet cloth over Ed’s automail arm. It sizzled dramatically, sending a curtain of nauseating steam up over Ed’s face. </p><p> </p><p>“You didn’t have to come,” Al said. He sounded worried. “I could have gone on my own.” </p><p> </p><p>“Shut up,” Ed rasped. He took another swig of water.</p><p> </p><p>A few yards away, Armstrong was talking with Fu, mapping out the rest of their route to the ruins. The old man was a character: almost as short as Granny, with a mustache even showier than Armstrong’s, and as far as Ed could figure out his main goal in life was to talk as little as possible. Getting a read on him was the hardest thing Ed had tried in a long time. He couldn’t really put a finger on the reason, but somehow, Fu seemed to know a lot more than he was letting on. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” Al said, breaking into Ed’s thoughts, “do you really think we’re gonna find anything out here?” </p><p> </p><p>It was the question Ed had been asking himself even since they’d left Resembool; it was also the question he’d been trying not to think about this whole time. <em> What if there’s nothing? What if it is just a legend? </em>It wouldn’t be the first time the old man had let them down. In fact, finding anything at all as a result of a lead they got from Dad would be a first: the only time in Ed’s memory that that asshole did anything to help them. </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know,” he told Al honestly. “It might be nothing. Or it might—” He broke off, squinting into the distance, at the vast emptiness stretching off on every side. </p><p> </p><p>“It might not,” Al finished for him. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p> </p><p>That was what they had to go on, now. After all this time, after all the research and the fighting and the hard work they’d put in, that was the sum total of their hope: <em> it might not be nothing</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Ed thought about Nina, her face tucked into her father’s shoulder, waving sleepily from the front door. It was the last time they’d seen her alive. He thought about Hughes. About the two brothers in their hollow body, dying in pain and alone in the empty tomb where the government buried them alive. About the chimeras in the sewers in Dublith; about the rancid smell of burnt meat in the alleyway with Mustang. A whole life, carried away on the smoke. <em> It might be nothing.  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Or— </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That was enough, for now. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We're finally here; it's finally done; I've enjoyed the ride immensely and I hope you have too, readers. </p><p>I don't know where things go from here. Is Ed really going to stay out of the military, or will he change his mind when he learns that Maria Ross is still alive? As far as I'm concerned, this story could meet back up with the events of canon (with Al a little out of place in the continuity), or it could follow a completely different path with Ed no longer a State Alchemist. We love a little ambiguity. </p><p>Thank you all for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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